LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


IN  MIZZOURA 

Play  in  Four  Acts 

BY 

vx 

AUGUSTUS  THOMAS 
U 

Revised  1916  by  AUGUSTUS  THOMAS 
Copyright,  1916,  by  AUGUSTUS  THOMAS 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED. 

CAUTION.— All  persons  are  hereby  warned  that  "!N 
MIZZOURA,"  being  fully  protected  under  the  copyright 
laws  of  the  United  States,  is  subject  to  royalty,  and 
anyone  presenting  the  play  without  the  consent  of  the 
owners  or  their  authorized  agents  will  be  liable  to  the 
penalties  by  law  provided.  Application  for  amateur 
acting  rights  must  be  made  to  SAMUEL  FRENCH,  28-30 
West  38th  Street,  New  York.  Application  for  the  pro 
fessional  acting  rights  must  be  made  to  the  AMERICAN 
PLAY  COMPANY,  33  West  42nd  Street,  New  York. 


NEW   YORK 

SAMUEL  FRENCH 

PUBLISHER 

2&30  WEST  38TH  STREET 


LONDON 


SAMUEL  FRENCH,  Ltd 

26    SOUTHAMPTON    STREET 

STRAND 


Especial  notice  should  be  taken  that  the  possession  of  this 
book  without  a  valid  contract  for  production  first  having 
been  obtained  from  the  publisher,  confers  no  ^ght  or  license 
to  professionals  or  amateurs  to  produce  the  play  publicly  or 
in  private  for  gain  or  charity. 

In  its  present  form  this  play  is  dedicated  to  the  reading 
public  only,  and  no  performance  of  it  may  be  given  except 
by  special  arrangement  with  Samuel  French,  28-30  West  38th 
Street,  New  York. 

SECTION  28— That  any  person  who  wilfully  or  for  profit 
shall  infringe  any  copyright  secured  by  this  act,  or  who  shall 
knowingly  and  wilfully  aid  or  abet  such  infringement  shall 
be  deemed  guilty  of  a  misdemeanor,  and  upon  conviction 
thereof  shall  be  punished  by  imprisonment  for  not  exceeding 
one  year,  or  by  a  fine  of  not  less  than  one  hundred  nor  more 
than  one  thousand  dollars,  or  both,  in  the  discretion  of  the 
court. 

Act  of  March  4,  1909. 


PREFACE 

This  preface  is  one  of  a  number  *  trying  to  show 
each  for  its  particular  play,  the  manner  of  the  play's 
conception,  whether  starting  from  a  theme,  a  char 
acter,  or  a  situation;  the  difficulty  of  the  start  and 
the  larger  problems  of  the  story's  development,  to 
gether  with  the  ways  considered  and  chosen  to  an 
swer  them.  It  has  been  thought  that  such  accounts 
might  be  of  interest,  and  in  some  instances,  perhaps, 
helpful  to  others  beginning  on  the  same  kind  of 
work. 

In  the  spring  of  1891  Mr.  Nat  Goodwin  was  one 
of  the  most  popular  and  successful,  as  well  as  one  of 
the  most  skillful,  of  American  actors.  He  had 
played  lively  and  slight  farces  almost  exclusively; 
but  having  the  ability  for  serious  work  as  well,  he 
was  ambitious  to  try  it.  In  a  comedy  by  Brander 
Matthews  and  George  H.  Jessop,  called  "  A  Gold 
Mine  "  he  had  given  one  or  two  dramatic  scenes  most 
convincingly ;  and  one  sentimental  soliloquy  with  a 
rose  in  exquisite  tenderness.  In  person  he  is  under 
the  average  height ;  and  then,  was  slight,  graceful, 
and  with  a  face  capable  of  conveying  the  subtlest 
shades  of  feeling.  The  forehead  was  ample;  the 
eyes  were  large  and  blue,  clear  and  steady.  The 
nose  was  mildly  Roman ;  the  hair  was  the  color  of 
new  hay.  His  voice  was  rich  and  modulated.  These 
points  are  reported  because  they  helped  form  the 
equipment  of  the  star,  who  wanted  a  serious  play  in 
which  he  should  be  the  hero.  The  order  was  with 
out  other  conditions  ;  the  play  might  be  of  any  period 
and  of  any  land. 

My  own  ignorance  fixed  certain  limitations.  At 
that  time  I  had  acquaintance  with  no  other  countries 
than  the  United  States  and  Canada.  These  I  knew 

•  Tne  Witching  Hour  :  Mrs  LeffingweH's  Boots  ;  The  Earl  of  Paw  * 
tucket.  The  Harvest  Moon;  Oliver  Goldsmith 


4  PREFACE. 

fairly  well.  I  had  traveled  them  with  one  night: 
theatrical  companies ;  and  also  in  newspaper  assign 
ments  ;  and  over  restricted  districts  I  had  worked  in 
the  employment  o£  a  railroad  company.  I  didn't 
care  to  write  from  books ;  so  my  Goodwin  hero  was 
to  be  perforce  an  American.  It  seemed  best  to  make 
him  an  American  of  1891.  Other  times  and  places 
were  excluded  and  dismissed  from  mind. 

Now,  a  blond  hero  five  feet  seven  inches  tall  and 
weighing  under  one  hundred  and  fifty-pounds — a 
Roman  nose,  and  a  steady,  steel  blue  gaze ! 

I  stood  the  Goodwin  photograph  on  my  table  and 
looked  at  it  until  it  talked  to  me.  The  slight  phy 
sique  couldn't  explain  the  solid  confidence  of  that 
look  except  there  was  behind  it  a  gun.  We  were 
doing  more  man  to  man  shooting  in  the  country 
hen  than  now ;  and  my  Western  friendships  made  me 
more  tolerant  of  the  gun  than  some  others  were. 
Goodwin  and  a  gun  sent  me  searching  mentally 
over  the  West  from  Colorado  to  the  Coast,  and 
through  all  occupations  from  b  ndit  to  fighting  par 
son  ;  and  then  mv  potential  gallery,  quite  apart  from 
any  conscious  effort  of  my  own,  divided  itself  into 
two  k:nds  of  gunpackers ;  the  authorized  and  the 
others.  I  concluded  that  there  would  be  less  trouble, 
less  "  lost  motion  " — that  was  a  phrase  learned,  and 
an  idea  applied  in  the  old-fashioned  composing 
room — less  lost  motion,  in  portraying  a  lawful  gun 
toter  than  in  justifying  an  outlaw ;  and  the  Goodwin 
part  was  therefore  to  be  either  a  soldier  or  a  sheriff. 
I  liave  said  that  he  was  thin,  graceful — and  he  was, 
b  t  he  wasn't  particularly  erect.  He  was  especially 
free  from  anv  suggestion  of  "  setting-up  " :  sheriff 
was  the  way  of  least  resistance. 

My  hero  was  a  sheriff.  You  cee  how  that  clears 
the  atmosphere.  When  you  must,  or  may,  write  for 
a  star,  it  is  a  big  start  to  have  the  character  agree- 
ablv  and  definitely  chosen. 

There  must  be  love  interest,  of  course. 


PREFACE.  5 

A  sheriff  would  presumably  be  a  bit  of  the  rough 
diamond ;  contrast  wherein  "  lieth  love's  delight " 
prompted  a  girl  apparently  of  a  finer  strain  than  him 
self  ;  and  conflict  necessitated  a  rival.  The  girl 
should  be  delicate  and  educated,  the  rival  should  be 
attractive  but  unworthy;  and  to  make  him  doubly 
opposed  to  Goodwin  I  decided  to  have  him  an  out 
law — someone  whom  it  would  be  the  sheriff's  duty 
and  business — business  used  in  the  stage  sense — to 
arrest. 

Four  or  five  years  before  the  Goodwin  contract 
I  had  been  one  of  the  Post-Dispatch  reporters  on 
the  "  Jim  Cummings  "  express  robbery.  That  cele 
brated  and  picturesque  case  was  of  a  man  who  pre 
sented  to  an  Express  messenger  at  the  side  door  of 
his  express  car,  just  as  the  train  was  pulling  from  the 
St.  Louis  station,  a  forged  order  to  carry  the  bearer, 
dead-head,  to  a  certain  distant  point  on  the  run. 
The  messenger  helped  the  dead-head  into  his  car 
and  chummed  with  him,  until  about  an  hour  later, 
when,  as  he  was  on  his  knees  arranging  some  of  his 
cargo,  he  found  a  pistol  muzzle  against  his  cheek, 
and  his  smiling  visitor  prepared  to  bind  and  gag  him. 
Having  done  this,  the  stranger  packed  one  hundred 
and  twenty  thousand  dollars  into  a  valise;  and 
dropped  off  into  the  dark,  when  the  train  made  its 
accustomed  stop  at  a  water-tank.  The  whole  enter 
prise  was  so  gentle,  that  the  messenger  was  arrested 
and  held  as  an  accomplice,  while  the  Pinkertons 
looked  for  the  man  with  the  money. 

The  robber  was  a  kind-hearted  person ;  and  being 
really  grieved  over  the  detention  of  an  innocent 
man,  wrote  several  exculpating  letters  to  the  papers 
enclosing  rifled  express  envelopes  to  prove  his  peri 
patetic  identity.  These  letters  were  signed  "  Jim 
Cummings,"  a  nom  de  guerre  borrowed  from  an 
older  and  an  abler  offender  of  the  Jesse  James  vint 
age. 

After  he  was  arrested  and  in  his  cell  in  the  St. 


6  PREFACE. 

Louis  jail,  "  Jim  Cummings  "  and  I  became  friends 
as  criminals  and  newspaper  men  sometimes  do,  and 
as  criminals  and  I  always  have  done,  everywhere, 
most  easily.  The  details  of  his  arrangements,  both 
before  and  after  his  draft  on  the  company  were 
minutely  in  my  mind,  and  were  so  very  vital  that 
with  the  first  need  for  a  drama  criminal  I  took  him. 
Goodwin's  rival  should  be  Jim  Cummings ;  a  glori 
fied  and  beautiful  and  matinee  Cummings,  but  sub 
stantially  he. 

This  adoption  rescued  the  girl  and  the  sheriff  from 
the  hazy  geography  of  the  mining  camps,  and  fixed 
the  trio  in  Missouri. 

After  Cummings  had  dropped  from  the  express 
car,  he  had  walked  some  fifteen  miles  to  the  Missouri 
River  near  St.  Charles,  and  had  then  gone  north  on 
a  train  through  Pike  County.  I  had  more  than  once 
made  the  same  trip  on  freight  trains ;  and  I  had  a 
liking  for  the  county  as  the  home  district  of  Champ 
Clark,  a  politico-newspaper  comrade  of  several  leg 
islative  sessions  and  conventions.  Newspaper  ex 
perience  in  those  days  before  the  "  flimsy  "  and  the 
"  rewrite "  emphasized  the  value  of  going  to  the 
place  in  order  to  report  the  occurrence ;  and  I  knew 
that,  aside  from  these  three  characters  and  their  offi 
cial  and  sentimental  relationships,  the  rest  of  my  peo 
ple  and  my  play  were  waiting  for  me  in  Bowling 
Green. 

In  those  days  Mrs.  Thomas  and  I  used  to  hold 
hands  on  our  evening  promenades ;  but  I  think  it 
was  really  our  foolish  New  York  clothes  that  made 
the  blacksmith  smile.  At  any  rate,  we  stopped  at 
his  door  and  talked  with  him.  He  knew  Champ 
Clark  and  Dave  Ball — another  Missouri  statesman — 
and  had  the  keenest  interest  in  the  coming  conven 
tion  for  the  legislative  nomination.  It  was  fine 
to  hear  him  pronounce  the  state  name  Mizzoura,  as 
it  was  originally  spelt  on  many  territorial  charts,  and 
as  we  were  permitted  to  call  it  in  the  public  schools 


PREFACE.  7 

until  we  reached  the  grades  where  imported  culture 
ruled.  The  blacksmith's  helper,  who  was  finishing 
a  wagon  shaft  with  a  draw  knife,  was  younger  and 
less  intelligent  and  preferred  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Thomas. 
It  is  distracting  to  listen  at  the  same  time  to  three 
persons ;  but  I  learned  that  "  You  kin  make  any 
thing  that's  made  out  o'  wood  with  a  draw  knife ; " 
and  over  the  bench  was  the  frame  for  an  upholstered 
chair.  A  driver  brought  in  a  two-horse,  side  seated, 
depot  wagon  on  three  wheels  and  a  fence  rail.  The 
fourth  wheel  and  its  broken  tire  were  in  the  wagon  : 
and  the  blacksmith  said  he'd  weld  the  tire  at  five- 
thirty  the  next  morning. 

We  went  without  breakfast  to  see  him  do 
it.  He  was  my  heroine's  father  by  that  time ;  a  can 
didate  for  the  legislature;  and  I  was  devising  for 
him  a  second  comedy  daughter,  to  play  opposite  to 
the  boy  with  a  draw  knife.  That  day  I  also  found 
the  drugstore  window  and  the  "  lickerish  "  boxes 
that  Cummings  should  break  through  in  his 
attempted  escape;  and  I  recovered  the  niggers,  the 
"  dog  fannell,"  the  linen  dusters,  and  the  paper  col 
lars  which,  in  my  recent  prosperity,  I'd  forgotten.  I 
also  nominated  Goodwin  for  the  legislature,  which 
increased  his  importance  and  gave  him  something 
to  sacrifice  for  the  girl's  father.  But  it  was  all  so 
poverty  stricken  as  I  glimpsed  it  through  the  black 
smith  shop  and  the  little  house  I'd  chosen  for  its 
consort.  I  yearned  for  some  money,  not  much,  but 
enough  to  afford  "  a  hired  girl,"  and  for  some  means 
of  bringing  the  money  into  the  story.  When  we  left 
Bowling  Green  I  had  given  Goodwin  a  substantial 
reward  for  the  robber's  capture;  but  he  wouldn't 
accept  it.  That  was  a  mere  dramatists  device ;  and 
my  quiet  sheriff  was  already  above  it ;  besides,  he 
wasn't  sure  that  he'd  hold  the  fellow.  His  wish  to 
please  the  girl  was  already  debating  the  matter  with 
his  duty. 

On  the  way  back  to  St.  Louis*  the  conductor,  who 


8  PREFACE. 

took  our  tickets,  recognized  me.  Charlie  Church  had 
been  a  freight  brakeman  when  I  was  in  the  St. 
Louis  yards.  He  was  proud  of  his  advancement  to 
a  passenger  conductorship — proud  of  his  train — • 
proud  of  the  new  Wabash  road-bed  on  the  single 
track  line.  This  road-bed  was  made  of  macadam- 
looking  metal,  clean  and  red  as  the  painted  bricks  in 
the  local  Dutch  women's  gardens  and  hard  as  flint. 
When  we  gave  the  right-of-way  and  ran  in  on  a 
siding,  Church  brought  us  up  a  few  pieces  to  the 
back  platform ;  and  with  one  of  them  scratched  my 
initials  on  the  glass  window.  "What  was  it,  iron 
ore? — no,  that  mud  that  the  river  leaves  when  it 
rises — '  Gumbo '  the  people  call  it.  Some  fellow 
found  by  accident  that  it  became  red  flint  when  fired 
and  was  making  a  fortune  selling  it  to  the  rail 
road."  To  burn  it,  he  used  the  slack  coal  from  the 
Tonesburg  mines  nearby,  which  until  then  had  also 
been  waste.  I  put  a  handful  of  the  stuff  in  my 
pocket ;  and  after  the  Conductor  left  us,  I  turned  the 
whole  enterprise  over  to  the  Goodwin  part.  When 
the  play  ended,  the  audience  should  feel  sure  that  he 
and  Kate  need  never  want  for  a  dollar.  I  knew  also 
where  he  had  accidentally  burnt  his  first  sample,  and 
made  his  discovery ;  in  the  blacksmith  shop. 

But  what  accident  brought  the  raw  Gumbo  there  ? 
Perhaps  the  wheels  of  the  stage  coach;  but  that 
wasn't  definitely  Goodwin.  The  soft  gumbo  is  not 
unlike  putty;  it  would  make  a  fair  cushion  for  a 
broken  limb:  but  I  didn't  want  to  halt  my  story 
with  anybody  crippled  to  that  extent;  and  then  I 
remembered  the  yellow  dog  drinking  from  the 
blacksmith's  tub.  I  broke  his  leg  and  had  Goodwin 
carry  him  miles  in  the  stage,  with  his  poor  paw  in  a 
poultice  of  gumbo.  It  was  a  counter-pointing  touch 
to  a  sheriff  with  two  guns ;  it  gave  him  an  effective 
entrance;  and  it  coupled  in  a  continuous  train,  the 
sheriff,  the  bad  man  who  sneered  at  it,  the  black 
smith  and  his  motherly  wife  who  sympathized  and 


PREFACE.  9 

helped  in  a  better  dressing,  the  forge  where  a 
piece  of  the  discarded  gumbo  should  fall  amongst 
the  coke,  the  helper  who  should  pump  the  bellows  for 
another  and  verifying  bake:  and  last,  and  best  of 
all,  it  gave  me  a  "  curtain  "  for  a  second  act ;  when 
perturbed  and  adrift  after  being  temporarily  re 
jected  by  the  girl,  Goodwin  should  turn  in  an  unde 
fined  but  natural  sympathy  to  the  crippled  dog  in 
his  box  under  the  helper's  bench. 

That  illustrates  one  of  a  dramatist's  discovered 
rules :  "  if  you  use  a  property  once  use  it  again  and 
again  if  you  can."  It  is  a  visual  thing  that  binds 
together  your  stuff  of  speech  like  a  dowel  in  a  mis 
sion  table. 

There  are  few  better  places  than  a  railroad  train 
for  building  stories ;  the  rythmic  click  of  the  wheels 
past  the  fish-plates  makes  your  thoughts  march  as 
a  drum  urges  a  column  of  soldiers.  A  tentative  lay 
out  of  the  story  established  in  the  first  act,  the  edu 
cated  Kate,  discontented  in  her  blacksmith  father's 
surroundings;  the  flash  r2scination  of  our  transient 
robber;  the  robber's  distinct  lead  over  Goodwin's 
accustomed  and  older  blandishments.  The  second 
act  saw  Goodwin  turned  down  and  the  robber  pre 
ferred.  The  third  act  should  see  the  robber's  ap 
prehension  and  arrest.  I  milled  around  the  ques 
tion  of  his  identification  as  Illinois  and  Indiana  went 
past  the  Pullman  window;  and  then  the  one  sure 
and  unfailing  witness  for  that  purpose  volunteered — 
the  express  messenger  himself.  There  was  no  rea 
son  why  this  young  man  shouldn't  be  a  native  of 
Bowling  Green  and  come  home  from  St.  Louis  at 
the  end  of  certain  runs.  He  would  know  Goodwin 
and  the  blacksmith's  family ;  but  to  put  him  nearer 
to  them,  more  "  into  the  story  "  sentimentally,  I  gave 
Goodwin  a  little  sister  and  made  the  messenger  her 
accepted  lover,  with  his  arrest  and  detention  post 
poning  the  wedding.  This  need  to  free  his  sister's 
fiance  gave  the  sheriff  hero  a  third  reason  for  eret- 


io  PREFACE. 

ting  the  real  robber ;  the  other  two  being  his  official 
duty  and  the  rivalry  for  Kate.  The  messenger  and 
the  sheriff's  sister,  the  helper  and  the  comedy  daugh 
ter,  and  Goodwin  and  Kate,  made  three  pairs  of 
young  lovers.  This  number  might  easily  lead  to  a 
disastrous  diffusion  of  interest  unless  the  playwright 
were  careful  always  to  make  the  work  of  each 
couple,  even  when  apparently  about  their  own  per 
sonal  affairs,  really  to  the  forward  trend  of  the 
story. 

I  doubt  if  the  production  of  novels,  even  to  the 
writer  temperamentally  disposed  to  that  form  of  ex 
pression,  is  as  absorbing  as  play  making.  The  dif 
ference  between  the  novel  and  the  play  is  the  dif- 
refence  between  was  and  is.  Something  has  hap 
pened  for  the  writer  of  the  novel  and  for  his  people. 
He  describes  it  as  it  was ;  and  them  as  they  were. 
In  the  play  something  is  happening.  It's  form  is 
controversial — and  the  playwright,  by  force  of  this 
controversy,  is  in  turn  each  one  of  his  characters,  and 
not  merely  a  witness  of  their  doings.  When  they 
begin  to  take  hold  of  him,  their  possession  is  more 
and  more  insistent — all  interests  in  real  life  become 
more  and  more  secondary  and  remote  until  the  ques 
tions  in  dispute  are  not  only  decided,  but  there  is  also 
a  written  record  of  the  debates  and  the  decision. 

By  the  time  our  train  pulled  into  New  York,  I  was 
impatient  to  make  a  running  transcript  of  speeches 
of  my  contending  people.  But  that  is  a  relief  that 
must  be  deferred.  Like  over-anxious  litigants,  the 
characters  are  disposed  to  talk  too  much  and  must 
be  controlled  and  kept  in  bounds  by  a  proportioned 
scenario,  assigning  order,  and  respective  and  pro 
gressive  values  to  them.  That  was  the  work  of  a  day 
by  that  time  and  then,  with  the  material  gathered, 
and  the  intimacy  with  the  people  and  the  places,  the 
play  was  one  that  wrote  itself. 

Augustus  Thomas. 


IN  MIZZOURA. 


Produced  at  the  Hooleys  Theatre,  Chicago,  in 
August,  1893,  with  the  following  cast : 

CAST  OF  CHARACTERS  IN  ORDER  OF  AP 
PEARANCE. 

MRS.  Jo  VERNON Jean  Clara  Walters 

ELIZABETH  VERNON Minnie  Dupree 

KATE  VERNON Belle  Archer 

DAVE Louis  Payne 

Jo  VERNON Burr  Mclntosh 

COL.  BOLLINGER William  G.  Beach 

ROBERT  TRAVERS Francis  Carlyle 

JIM  RADBURN Nat  C.  Goodwin 

CAL Charles  Miller 

ESROM /.  W.  McAndrews 

BILL  SARBER Robert  G.  Wilson 

KELLY Louis  Barrett 

EMILY  RADBURN Mae  E.  Wood 

SAM  FOWLER Arthur  Hoops 


SYNOPSIS  OF  SCENERY. 

ACT  I.        Living  room  at  Joe  Vernon's.    Time — 

evening   in  June. 
ACT  II.      Blacksmith     shop     of     Joe     Vernon. 

Morning  of   the   2nd   day. 
ACT  III.     Living  room  of  Joe  Vernon.    Evening 

of  the  2nd  day. 
ACT  IV.    Home  and  door-yard  of  Jim  Radburn. 

Time,  the  next  morning. 

II 


IN  MIZZOURA 


ACT  I. 

Music  at  rise  of  curtain. — The  old  "Forty-nine" 
tune,  "  My  Name  it  is  Joe  Bowers." 

SCENE: — Pike  Co.  dining-room,  living-room  and 
kitchen  combined.  A  line  of  broken  plaster  and 
unmatched  wall  papers  marks  the  ceiling  and 
back  flat  a  little  left  of  center  Doors  R.  and  L. 
in  3.  Door  in  R.  flat.  Old-fashioned  table. 
Dresser,  low  window  with  many  panes,  window 
sash  sliding  horizontally — outside  of  door  is  pan 
of  leaves  burning  to  smoke  off  mosquitoes. 

DISCOVERED :— MRS.  VERNON  and  LIZBETH. 
MRS.  VERNON  ironing;  LIZBETH  at  pan  of  fire. 

MRS.  VERNON.    Lizbeth ! 

LIZBETH.    Ma ? 

MRS.  VERNON.  Move  that  pan  a  little  f urder  off. 
The  smoke's  a  durnation  sight  worse'n  the  skeeters. 

LIZBETH.  (Rising  and  coming  in)  Well,  we 
couldn't  sleep  fur  'em  last  night,  and  it's  just  as 
well  to  smoke  'em  good. 

MRS.  VERNON.  But  such  an  all  fired  smell — 
what're  you  burnin'? 

LIZBETH.    Dog  fannel 

MRS.  VERNON.  I  thought  so.  It's  nearly  turned 
my  stomich — come,  hurry  with  this  ironin'  now. 

LIZBETH.  (Coming  down  R.  of  table)  Let's 
leave  it  till  mornin',  ma 

MRS.  VERNON.  Can't  Lizbeth,  it's  bin  put  off 
since  Wednesday  an'  the  furst  thing  we  know  we'll 
be  havin'  it  to  do  Sunday — get  me  another  iron. 
r(^LiZBETH  goes  left)  I'm  reg'lar  tuckered  out. 

13 


H  IN  MIZZOURA. 

LIZBETH.  Me  too.  (Sound  of  sledge  hammer 
from  door  L.  3  E.  LIZBETH  exit  L.) 

(MRS.  VERNON  sits  on  rocker  and  fans  herself  with 
frayed  out  palm  leaf.) 

MRS.  VERNON.  Lor' — to  think  o'  this  weather 
in  June.  It's  jis'  terrible. 

(Enter  KATE  R.  3.    KATE  is  neatly  gowned  and  is 
of  a  superior  clay.) 

KATE.    Mother 

MRS.  VERNON.    Well,  Kate? 

KATE.  Must  we  have  this  awful  odor  again  to 
night  ? 

MRS.  VERNON.  Got  to  have  something  Kate,  to 
drive  off  the  skeeters.  (Enter  LIZBETH  L.)  I  ain't 
slep'  none  for  two  nights. 

•   KATE.    They  might  be  kept  out  some  other  way. 
(She  sits  in  chair  R.) 

MRS.  VERNON.  (Taking  the  fresh  iron  and 
resuming  work)  I  ruined  my  best  pillar  slips 
an'  nearly  smothered  myself  with  coal  oil  last  night. 
I'll  try  my  own  way  now.  It's  all  very  well  fur  you, 
Kate,  whose  got  the  only  muskeeter  bar  in  the  fam 
ily 

LIZBETH.  (In  the  rocker)  Yes,  and  won't  let 
your  sister  sleep  with  you 

KATE.  I'll  gladly  give  you  the  mosquito  bar, 
Lizbeth,  but  two  grown-up  people  can't  sleep  in  a 
narrow  single  bed. 

LIZBETH.    I  hope  you  don't  s'pose  I'd  take  it. 

KATE.  I  gave  you  one  to  make  the  window 
frames. 

MRS.  VERNON.  Well,  kin  the  poor  girl  help  that, 
Kate?  Didn't  the  dogs  jump  through  'em?  (She 
indicates  the  ragged  netting  on  the  frame)  ^ 

KATE.    Why  do  you  have  the  dogs  about  ? 


IN  MIZZOURA.  15 

MRS.  VERNON.  Well,  when  you've  lived  as  long 
as  I  have  in  Pike  County,  you'll  know  you  got  to 
have  dogs  if  you  leave  your  winder's  open.  There — 
I've  ironed  another  pearl  button  in  two — yes,  an* 
it's  pulled  a  piece  right  out  o'  one  o'  yer  pa's 
bosoms.  That's  cause  I'm  so  tired,  I  can't  see. 
Lizbeth,  where's  them  prescriptions? 

LIZBETH.    In  the  yeast  powder-box. 

MRS.  VERNON.  Well,  get  one  for  me.  (LIZBETH 
gets  box  from  over  the  stove)  I  can't  go  on  with 
this  ironin'  without  some  beer. 

LIZBETH.     Who'll  go  for  it? 

MRS.  VERNON.    Ask  Dave 

LIZBETH.    (At  door  L.    Calls)    Dave! 

DAVE.     (Off)     Yes,  Lizbeth. 

LIZBETH.    Ma  wants  you  to 

MRS.  VERNON.  Now,  don't  yawp  it  out  to  the 
whole  neighborhood,  Lizbeth — tell  Dave  to  come 
here. 

LIZBETH.     (In  a  lower  tone)    Come  here! 

MRS.  VERNON.  Give  me  the  prescription.  (LIZ- 
BETH  arranges  the  linen  in  the  basket.  Enter  DAVE 
L.)  Dave,  the  ironin'  an'  the  heat  an*  everything 
jes'  about  floored  me — won't  you  go  to  the  drug 
store  with  this  prescription  an'  get  me  a  quart  bottle 
of  St.  Louis  beer? 

DAVE.     (Taking  the  prescription)     Certainly. 

MRS.  VERNON.    I  can't  send  the  girls  after  dark. 

DAVE.    Oh,  that's  all  right.     (Exit  to  street) 

MRS.  VERNON.  (Ironing  again)  If  your  pa  ever 
does  get  into  the  Legislature  I  hope  he'll  defeat  this 
blamed  local  auction  business.  It's  all  well  enough 
foe  those  Salvation  women  who  ain't  got  a  thing  to 
do  but  pound  tambourines,  but  if  they  had  the 
washin',  and  ironin'  an'  cookin'  to  do  for  a  fambly 
of  six — an'  three  dogs — they'd  need  something  to 
k«ep  body  an'  soul  together. 

KATE.    (Going  to  street  door)    How  much  longer 
you  iron  to-nigfct  ?  ' 


16  IN  MIZZOURA. 

MRS.  VERNON.    Why  ?    Do  you  want  the  room  ? 

KATE.    Oh,  no — but 

LIZBETH.  Is  Travers  coming  to-night,  Kate? 
(Sits  in  rocker) 

KATE.    I  don't  know  who  may  come. 

MRS.  VERNON.  What  difference  does  it  make  who 
does  come  ? 

KATE.  None,  except  that  the  room  is  filled  with 
smoke  and — is  hot. 

MRS.  VERNON.  Well,  to  my  mind  Travers  may  as 
well  get  himself  used  to  places  that  are  hot  and  filled 
with  smoke — fur  if  he  ain't  one  of  Old  Nick's  own 
ones,  I  never  see  any 

KATE.    Mother!!    Mr.  Travers  is  a  gentleman! 

MRS.  VERNON.  How  do  you  know  ?  Four  years 
to  a  female  seminary  don't  make  you  a  better  judge 
of  gentlemen  than  us  who  stay  to  home  here.  Your 
pa's  a  gentleman  if  he  is  a  wheelwright — so  is  Jim 
Radburn 

LIZBETH.    And  Dave 

MRS.  VERNON.    Yes,  and  Dave 

KATE.    But  none  of  them  is  like  Mr.  Travers. 

MRS.  VERNON.  No,  thank  God  they  ain't. 
Travers,  Kate — (Pause)  Travers — (Pause)  and 
mind  you  I've  seen  men  before  you  was  born — 
Travers  is  as  much  like  a  gambler  as  any  I  ever 
saw. 

KATE.  (Coming  down)  Look  here,  mother — I've 
heard  you  say  you  had  to  run  away  from  home  with 
father  because  your  people  didn't  like  him — but  that 
didn't  make  him  any  worse,  did  it  ? 

MRS.  VERNON.  Well,  it  didn't  make  him  any 
better,  Kate,  and  I've  regretted  it  from  the  bottom 
of  my  heart  a  hundred  times — I  want  you  to  under 
stand — (Looks  uneasily  at  door  L.)  I've  told  it  to 
him  often  enough — (Lowering  voice)  And  if  he 
was  here  I'd  tell  him  again  now — that  I  could  ha' 
married  a  doctor. 


IN  MIZZOURA.  17 

LIZBETH.  You're  not  calculatin'  to  run  away 
with  Travers,  are  you,  Kate  ? 

KATE.  You  know  I'm  not,  Lizbeth — but  I  think 
you  and  mother  might  be  a  little  more  considerate 
in  what  you  say.  I  try  to  make  the  place  tidy  and 
nice  for  your  evenings  with  Dave,  don't  I  ? 

LIZBETH.    Well,  I  didn't  mean  nothin',  Kate. 

KATE.  And  I  do  my  share  of  the  housework. 
(Goes  to  window.  As  her  voice  trembles  MRS. 
VERNON  signals  silence  to  LIZBETH  ) 

MRS.  VERNON.  Of  course  you  do,  dear.  Lizbeth, 
you  oughtn't  to  be  so  thoughtless  in  what  you  say. 

(Enter  DAVE  with  beer.) 

DAVE.    Here  you  are,  Mrs.  Vernon. 

MRS.  VERNON.  Thank  you,  Dave — ask  that  old 
man  in  there  if  he'll  have  a  glass. 

DAVE.    Yes'm.     (Exit  to  shop) 

MRS.  VERNON.  We'll  clear  the  place  right  up, 
Kate — don't  feel  bad  about  it. 

KATE.  You  needn't,  mother — if  Mr.  Travers 
calls  we  can  go  walking.  (Goes  to  door) 

MRS.  VERNON.  No,  Kate,  and  I  say  it  only  fur 
your  sake — I  wouldn't  have  the  people  of  Bowling 
Green  see  you  trapsing  the  streets  at  night  with  a 
man  you  ain't  knowed  but  a  month,  fur  nothin'. 

(Enter  JOE  VERNON  L.  3.  JOE  is  a  six  footer  with 
full  beard.  He  wears  a  leather  apron  and  has 
his  sleeves  rolled  up.) 

JOE.    Dave  says,  ma,  that 

MRS.  VERNON.  Yes,  here  it  is.  (Hands  glass  of 
beer)  Nearly  dead,  Joe? 

JOE.     (Smiling)    Oh,  no — but  I  kin  stand  this. 

KATE.  Is  there  any  objection  to  our  spending 
the  evening  at  Mrs.  Woods  ? 


i8  IN  MIZZOURA. 

MRS.  VERNON.    Now,  what's  the  attraction  there? 

KATE.    She  has  a  piano. 

MRS.  VERNON.  Yes,  with  two  teeth  broke  out  of 
it.  Why  don't  you  ever  play  on  the  melodeon? 
(Pointing  to  it) 

JOE.    Yes,  after  Jim  givin*  it  to  you. 

MRS.  VERNON.  (Clearing  up  the  ironing)  I 
wouldn't  treat  a  dog  the  way  you  treat  Jim  Rad- 
burn,  Kate. 

(KATE  silent  at  doorway.) 

JOE.  (At  the  wash-basin  on  the  bench  at  back 
wall)  Ma,  where's  the  soap  ? 

MRS.  VERNON.    I  must  a  left  it  in  the  dish-pan. 

(Jos  gets  it  and  begins  washing  in  tin  basin.) 

TOE.    (Calling  through  sputter)    Dave! 

DAVE.     (Off)     Yes,  sir. 

JOE.    (At  door  of  shop)    Might  as  well  shut  up. 

DAVE.    All  right. 

BOLLINGER.  (Outside  to  the  left)  Good-evening, 
Katie. 

KATE.    Good-evening,  Colonel. 

BOLLINGER.  Rain  seems  to  let  up.  Where's  pa? 
(Appears  at  window  from  L.) 

JOE.    (Looking  up  from  the  basin)    Hello,  Tom. 

BOLLINGER.  Evening,  Joe — Mrs.  Vernon — Hello, 
•Lizbeth. 

LIZBETH.    (Again  in  the  rocker)    Hello,  Colonel. 

BOLLINGER.    Jis'  through  ? 

JOE.    Been  puttin'  in  a  little  overtime. 

BOLLINGER.    Reckon  you'll  have  another  job. 

JOE.    How's  that? 

BOLLINGER.  Louisiana  stage  bust  a  tire  on  the 
near  fore  wheel  to-night. 

JOE.  That's  so?  Lookout — jus' a  minute.  (BOL 
LINGER  steps  aside;  JOE  throws  water  out  of  the 


IN  MIZZOURA.  19 

window)  There,  ma — don't  say  I  lost  it  now. 
(Throws  soap  back  into  dish-pan)  How'd  she  come 
to  do  that  ? 

BOLLINGER.  Too  big  a  load,  I  guess — then  the 
rain's  cut  up  the  road  so  and  she  were  stuck  in  a 
rut  an'  all  of  'em  pryin'  at  her  with  fence  rails. 

JOE.    Somethin'  had  to  come. 

BOLLINGER.    Ye-ep. 

MRS.  VERNON.  (Sits  at  table  R.  and  fans)  Won't 
you  come  in  ? 

BOLLINGER.  No,  thank  you.  Too  hot.  Down  to 
Louisiana  on  business — sweat  clean  through  two 
paper  collars.  This'n's  getting  mealy.  (He  wipes 
his  neck) 

JOE.  'J-ever  see  such  weather.  (Punches  LIZBETH 
to  get  out  of  rocker;  sits  in  her  place.  LIZBETH  goes 
to  the  melodeon  stool) 

BOLLINGER.  Not  since  I  was  born.  I  hope  the 
blamed  rain's  over.  All  passenger  trains  holdin' 
down  to  eight  mile  an  hour  'tween  St.  Charles 
and  Jonesburg  on  the  Wabash  on  'count  of  the  wash 
outs. 

JOE.    Why  don't  they  ballast  that  air  track  ? 

BOLLINGER.  Too  stingy,  I  reckon.  Say,  Joe,  if 
you  git  through  the  convention  and  they  send  you 
up  to  Jeff  City,  you'll  have  to  jump  on  the  corpor 
ations. 

JOE.  Well,  how  do  things  look  for  the  conven 
tion? 

BOLLINGER.  Well,  down  Louisiana  way  looks 
about  six  and  half  a  dozen.  You  wouldn't  have  any 
trouble  at  all,  if  we  could  get  Radburn  out  o*  the 
race. 

JOE.  Well,  I  ain't  got  no  right  to  ask  him  to  do 
that. 

KATE.  (From  the  doorway)  Do  you  mean, 
Colonel,  that  Mr.  Radburn's  following  will  be  a 
serious  opposition  to  father's  nomination? 

BOLLINGER.   Well,  it  looks  that  way,  Kate. 


20  IN  MIZZOURA. 

KATE.  Is  there  a  chance  of  Mr.  Radburn's  get 
ting  the  nomination  ? 

BOLLINGER.  Yes,  I  should  say  it  was  a  stand-off 
atween  him  an'  the  Guv'nor,  but  I'm  a-rootin'  for 
your  pa. 

MRS.  VERNON.  Well,  I  can't  see  what  right  Jim 
Radburn  has  got  to  be  as  strong  with  the  Democracy 
as  Joe  Vernon.  (Crosses  to  dishpan) 

JOE.    You  can't  say  nothin'  against  Jim,  ma. 

MRS.  VERNON.    I  ain't.    I'm  just  askin'. 

BOLLINGER.  Well,  you  see  Jim's  bein'  sheriff  four 
terms,  an'  never  shootin'  anybody 

MRS.  VERNON.    Why  he's  shot  fifty ! 

BOLLINGER.  Well,  I  meant  never  killin'  nobody, 
has  naturally  endeared  him  to  the  peaceable  element 
in  the  community.  Jim  has  always  said,  and  stuck 
to  it,  that  a  sheriff  who  couldn't  wing  a  prisoner 
without  killin'  him,  was  a  nuisance — and  you  take 
his  record,  and  go  clean  through  it,  you'll  find  out 
this  one  thing.  If  a  man  was  running  Jim  fetched 
him  in  the  leg.  If  he  pulled  a  gun  on  him,  Jim 
smashed  that  hand.  And  he  says,  "  You  ain't  got  a 
right  to  kill  another  man,  unless  that  man  draws  two 
guns  at  the  same  time." 

JOE.  Yes,  I  reckon  Jim's  the  gamest  we  ever 
had. 

BOLLINGER.  He  came  up  on  the  stage  to-night 
from  Louisiana. 

JOE.    Was  he  "  lectioneering  "  down  there  ? 

BOLLINGER.  No,  I  ain't  heerd  of  him  makin'  no 
canvass.  He  was  helpin'  me  to  collect  testimony. 

MRS.  VERNON.    Testimony?    What  fur? 

BOLLINGER.  Sam  Fowler.  You  know  that  Ex 
press  Co.  is  holdin'  him  prisoner  yet? 

JOE.  Thought  you  was  goin'  to  get  a  habus  cor 
pus? 

BOLLINGER.  Well,  I  was;  only  I  went  to  St. 
J^ouis  yesterday  to  see  Sam.  He's  all  right.  They've 
got  'im  in  a  comfortable  room  at  the  Southern 


IN  MIZZOURA:  21 

Hotel,  an'  they  are  try  in '  to  make  him  confess  that 
he  stood  in  with  the  express  robber.  He's  livin'  on 
the  fat  of  the  land,  so  I  told  him  to  stick  it  out  as 
long  as  the  company  did,  "cause  the  longer  they  hold 
him,  the  more  damages  we'll  get  for  false  imprison 
ment.  So  Jim  Radburn  an'  me  been  fillin'  in  the 
time,  gettin'  witnesses  to  his  good  character. 

MRS.  VERNON.  What's  Radburn  got  to  do  with 
it? 

BOLLINGER.  Well,  you  know — on  account  o' 
Emily. 

MRS.  VERNON.  Oh,  yes !  I  reckon  that'll  put  off 
their  weddin'  won't  it  ? 

BOLLINGER.  I'm  try  in*  to  fix  it  that  way,  so's  to 
pile  up  the  damages. 

KATE.     (Quickly)    Ma! 

MRS.  VERNON.    What  is  it,  Kate? 

KATE.    Why 

MRS.  VERNON.    Company? 

KATE.    Yes. 

MRS.  VERNON.  Here,  Lizbeth,  take  hold  this  bas 
ket. 

(They  carry  out  basket  R.  3  E.) 
KATE.    Good-evening,  Mr.  Travers. 
(TRAVERS  appears  at  door.) 

TRAVERS.  Good-evening,  Miss  Vernon — good- 
evening,  Colonel. 

BOLLINGER.    Evening. 

TRAVERS.  The  rain  seems  to  be  over  at  last. 
(He  fans  himself  with  his  hat) 

BOLLINGER.  I  reckon  we'll  have  some  more  of  it 
with  that  ring  around  the  moon. 

TRAVERS.  (Coming  into  doorway)  Anything 
new  about  the  express  robber — good-evening,  Mr. 
Vernon. 


22  IN  MIZZOURA. 

JOE.    (  Up  to  stove;  tries  bottle)    How  are  you  ? 

BOLLINGER.  I  ain't  heard  anything  'cept  what's 
in  the  morning  papers. 

TRAVERS.    What  was  that  ?    I  didn't  see  them. 

BOLLINGER.  Why,  the  blamed  cuss  has  mailed  one 
of  the  empty  money  wrappers  to  the  Globe  Demo 
crat  to  show  he's  the  real  robber  and  sent  a  letter 
sayin'  Sam  Fowler  was  innocent. 

TRAVERS.    Yes  ?    Well,  did  that  do  any  good  ? 

BOLLINGER.  On  the  contrary,  sir,  the  express 
company  says  he  wouldn't  be  so  anxious  about  Sam 
— if  Sam  weren't  a  friend  of  his'n. 

(Re-enter  MRS.  VERNON  and  LIZBETH.    LIZBETH  to 
rocker.) 

MRS.  VERNON.  (Pleasantly)  Good-evening,  Mr. 
Travers. 

TRAVERS.      Good-evening,    Mrs.    Vernon — Miss 
Elizabeth. 
•*»    LIZBETH.    Good-evening. 

MRS.  VERNON.  Hasn't  Kate  had  the  politeness  to 
ask  you  in  ? 

TRAVERS.    Well,  it's  a  little  cooler  out  here. 

KATE.    Won't  you  come  in? 

MRS.  VERNON.  Do  come — the  skeeters'll  kill  you 
out  there. 

(TRAVERS  enters.) 

JOE.  Don't  sit  there.  I  just  splashed  some  water 
there,  an'  it'ud  spot  them  pants  scandalous.  (Down 
to  melodeon) 

MRS.  VERNON.  Lizbeth,  give  Mr.  Travers  the 
rocker. 

(LIZBETH  to  bench.) 
TRAVERS.    Oh,  no,  I  beg  of  you. 


IN  MIZZOURA.  23 

MRS.  VERNON.  Yes,  it's  the  most  comfortable. 
(Places  the  rocker  for  him)  Vernon  there  had  to 
put  his  feet  through  it  yesterday  fixin'  the  stove 
pipe,  and  they  ain't  been  no  furniture  man  along 
to  mend  it,  though  he  ginerally  comes  Fridays. 

TRAVERS.  Thank  you.  (Sits;  KATE  to  chair  at 
table;  MRS.  VERNON  to  cupboard  busy) 

JIM.  (Off  R.)  Hello,  Bollinger,*  can't  I  shake 
you? 

BOLLINGER.  Well,  looks  like  you  was  doin'  the 
followin' — ha,  ha! 

JOE.    Is  that  Jim  ? 

BOLLINGER.  Yes — comin'  here — (Calls)  you 
ain't  got  that  cripple  with  you  yit  ? 

JIM.     Yes — where  do  you  think  I'd  leave  him? 

(Enter  JIM  RADBURN  from  R.  to  door  with  small 
yellow  dog  in  his  arms.  One  front  paw  is  tied 
up.) 

JOE.    Hello,  Jim,  what's  that  you  got  there  ? 

JIM.    Er — a — his  leg's  broke. 

JOE.  (Laughing)  Didn't  pull  a  gun  on  you,  did 
he? 

JIM.  The  blamed  fool  dropped  a  fence  rail  on 
him.  Good-eve'n'g,  Kate. 

KATE.    Good-evening,  Jim. 

MRS.  VERNON.  Tain't  one  o'  Beauty's  pups,  is 
it? 

JIM.  No,  'tain't  no  dog  o'  mine.  Jes'  follered  me 
— run  after  the  stage — then  when  she  was  stuck  in 
the  mud.  Bill  Sarber  dropped  a  rail  he  was  prying 
with,  and — broke  his  poor  little  leg. 

BOLLINGER.  Sarber's  the  awkwardest  cuss  any 
how. 

MRS.  VERNON.    Always  was. 

BOLLINGER.  Then  he  laffed,  and  Jim  made  him 
'pologize  to  everybody  in  the  stage. 


24  IN  MIZZOURA. 

JIM.  (Looking  about)  What  you  been  doin'  to 
the  room  ? 

JOE.    (Proudly)    Took  out  the  partition. 

JIM.  I  see.  Makin'  some  improvements.  Looks 
bully,  don't  it  ? 

JOE.  Makes  the  dinin'-room  bigger,  an'  gives 
more  space  in  the  kitchen.  Saves  steps  for  ma. 

MRS.  VERNON.  (Approaching  dog)  What  kind 
of  a  poultice's  that  ?  Flaxseed  ? 

JIM.    Gumbo. 

MRS.  VERNON.    Gumbo? 

BOLLINGER.  That's  what  they  call  that  soft  mud 
the  river  leaves  down  there  when  it  rises — gumbo. 

JIM.  It's  only  a  cushion  so  the  joltin'  wouldn't 
hurt  him.  I  just  been  with  him  to  Clark's  drug 
store.  (To  front)  Clark  said  he  wasn't  a  dog 
doctor. 

JOE.    Wouldn't  'tend  to  him,  eh? 

JIM.  No — but  I'll  square  it  with  him.  He's  up 
for  coroner.  (Starts  for  shop — stops)  I  told  him 
that  a  man  what'd  see  a  little  dumb  animal  suffer 
ought  to  be  drummed  out  of  town.  Is  Dave  there  ? 

JOE.    Yes. 

JIM.  Well,  we'll  splinter  this  leg  ourselves. 
(Going  i..) 

TRAVERS.  Why  don't  you  kill  him,  and  put  him 
out  of  misery  ? 

JIM.  (Pause  in  door  L.)  Kill  this  little  dog  that 
took  a  fancy  to  me  and  followed  the  stage  when  I  got 
in  it! 

TRAVERS.    Yes — why  not  ? 

JIM.  (After  appealing  look  to  the  others;  then 
back  to  TRAVERS)  Why,  I  never  killed  a  man. 

(Exit  into  shop;  JOE,  MRS.  VERNON,  LIZBETH,  fol 
low  laughing — BOLLINGER  exit    R.  H.) 

TRAVERS.     (Going  to  table)     What  did  he  say? 
KATE.    That  he  never  killed  a  man. 


IN  MIZZOURA.  25 

TRAVERS.  Well,  neither  have  I.  Is  that  an  unusal 
reputation  in  Pike  County  ? 

KATE.  It  is  for  one  who  like  Mr.  Radburn  carries 
seven  bullets  in  his  own  body,  fired  there  by  men  he. 
was  arresting. 

TRAVERS.    I've  heard  he  was  very  fond  of  you. 

KATE.    (Turning  away)    Don't  talk  of  that. 

TRAVERS.    May  I  talk  of  my  love  for  you? 

KATE.     (Turning)    Yes. 

TRAVERS.    You  are  not  happy  here. 

KATE.  I  feel  it  is  unworthy  in  me  to  say  that  I 
am  not. 

TRAVERS.    Yet,  you  are  not 

KATE.  The  narrowness  of  the  life  oppresses  me. 
I  do  not  live  in  their  world  of  work  and  humble 
wishes — they  made  the  mistake  of  sending  me  away 
to  school.  I  have  seen  a  bigger  world  than  theirs. 
(Turns,  elbows  on  table;  impulsively)  I  like  you, 
Mr.  Travers,  because  you  are  a  part  of  that  bigger 
world. 

TRAVERS.  You  like  me,  Kate!  Only  like?  No 
more? 

KATE.    I  don't  know. 

TRAVERS.  Will  you  go  with  me — away  from  here, 
into  that  bigger  world  ? 

KATE.  Not  until  I  am  sure  it  is  you  for  whom  I 
go,  and  not  merely  for  the  liberty. 

TRAVERS.    How  will  you  ever  tell  ? 

KATE.  Some  accident  will  teach  me.  It  is  a 
dreadful  moment,  isn't  it,  when  we  learn  that  kin 
ship,  the  truest  kinship,  is  not  a  thing  of  blood,  but 
of  ideas — my  college  mates  who  thought  as  I  did, 
were  nearer  to  me  than  my  family,  who  never  can 
think  as  I  do. 

(Enter  MRS.  VERNON  L.) 

MRS.  VERNON.  I  never  see  such  a  hero  as  that 
little  dog — he  jis'  seemed  to  know  they  was  helpin' 


26  IN  MIZZOURA. 

him  when  they  pulled  them  poor  bones  together — 
jes'  look  how  quiet  he  stands — whinnered  a  little 
but  didn't  holler  'tall.  (TRAVERS  goes  up  to  door) 

KATE.  (Aside)  That  is  enough  to  make  the  man 
despise  me !  (Goes  back  to  table) 

TRAVERS.  (Going  up)  Oh  yes — he  knows  he's 
among  friends. 

MRS.  VERNON.  (Looking  into  shop)  Now  I  say 
they's  lots  of  folks  of  education  what  ain't  got  as 
much  sense  as  that  dog. 

(TRAVERS  comes  down.) 

KATE.  (R.  c.)  Let  us  go  walking.  I  can't 
breathe  in  here. 

TRAVERS.    (c.)    With  pleasure. 

MRS.  VERNON.    Where  you  goin',  Kate  ? 

KATE.  Only  outside  the  door — (At  door)  to  the 
corner. 

MRS.  VERNON.  (Doubtingly)  Well — (Going  c. 
Exeunt  TRAVERS  and  KATE — positively)  Well,  I 
don't  care  who  hears  me — (R.  c.,  looks  cautiously 
out)  I  don't  like  his  looks. 

(Enter  JOE  L.) 

TOE.    (£//>L.)    Ma! 

MRS.  VERNON.    What  ? 

JOE.  Ain't  you  got  some  soup  meat  or  sompthin' 
you  kin  spare  that  little  ki-yoodle  ? 

MRS.  VERNON.  Well,  if  his  leg's  broke  he  better 
not  have  no  meat  or  stuff  that'd  feed  a  fever.  If 
yew  kin  drink  your  second  cup  in  the  mornin'  with 
out  milk  I  kin  spare  him  some  o'  that. 

TOE.    All  right. 

MRS.  VERNON.  (Scolding)  An'  the  milk's  hang- 
in*  in  the  cistern.  (Takes  cup  from  back  wall) 
Plague  take  it !  Woman's  work's  never  done.  (Exit 
»•  3) 


IN  MIZZOURA.  27 

JOE.  (After  a  moment)  I  s'pose  I  could  a  got 
it.  (Calls)  Lizbeth! 

LIZBETH.    (O^L.)    Yes.    (Enters) 

JOE.  (Scolding)  Why  don't  you  help  your  poor 
ma  ?  She's  had  to  go  after  the  milk. 

LIZBETH.  (Angrily  meeting  JOE'S  tone)  Well,  I 
didn't  know  it.  (Exit  after  MRS.  VERNON) 

JOE.  (Getting  alarm-clock.  Calls  into  shop) 
Dave! 

DAVE.     (Off)     Yes. 

JOE.    (At  door  L.)    You  don't  need  him  Jim  ? 

JIM.     (Off)     No. 

JOE.  (Leaving  door)  See  here —  (Enter  DAVE) 
Kin  you  run  one  o'  these  machines  ? 

DAVE.    I  allow  I  kin. 

JOE.  (Hands  clock  to  DAVE)  Then  set  her  an 
hour  earlier  and  have  things  fired  up  in  the  mornin'. 
We've  got  to  weld  that  Louisiana  tire,  I  reckon, 
afore  breakfast. 

DAVE.    All  right. 

(Enter  MRS.  VERNON  and  LIZBETH  R.) 

MRS.  VERNON  Here  Joe —  (Hands  cup)  Git 
to  feedin'  it,  I'll  git  attached  to  it  an*  we've  got  too 
many  dogs  now. 

JOE.  (Caressing  her  with  rough  push  on  the  face) 
I  know  you,  ma — you're  the  motherin'est  old  hen  in 
Pike —  (Going)  If  he  don't  drink  this  I'll  drowned 
him. 

MRS.  VERNON.  (To  street  door  up  R.)  Now, 
Lizbeth,  I  don't  see  nothin'  of  Kate.  She's  out  there 
with  Travers — you  an'  Dave  kind  o'  hang  round 
like  you  was  with  'em. 

LIZBETH.  Come,  Dave.  (To  MRS.  VERNON) 
Jes'  not  let  on  ? 

MRS.  VERNON.    Yes — purtendin*. 

(Exit  LIZBETH.) 


28  IN  MIZZOURA. 

DAVE.    All  right.    (Exit  after  LIZBETH) 

JOE.  (Entering  door  L.)  Jes'  look  at  him,  ma- 
he's  got  his  eyebrows  in  it. 

MRS.  VERNON.  (At  door;  leans  on  JOE'S 
shoulder)  The  darlin' — jes'  to  think,  Joe,  if  one  of 
our  children  was  sufferin' 

JOE.    (With  unction)    You  bet. 

MRS.  VERNON.  (Earnestly  calls)  Don't  let  him 
splash  it  on  you,  Jim — 't'll  spot  your  clothes. 

JOE.    (Pause  admiringly)    Jim  don't  care  a  durn. 

MRS.  VERNON.  There,  I'll  fix  his  bed.  (Getting 
coats  from  peg,  back  wall)  What's  a  man  know, 
anyhow  ?  (Exit  to  shop) 

JOE.  (Gets  tobacco  from  shelf)  She'll  fix  him 
all  right — ha,  ha! 

JIM.  (Entering,  looking  back)  Say,  Joe,  women 
are  great,  ain't  they?  (Stands  admiringly  in  door 
way) 

JOE.  (Slowly  coming  down,  filling  pipe)  Jim! 
(Pause.  JIM  doesn't  answer,  only  looks  at  JOE) 

You  an'  me (Turns  quickly  and  looks  at  JIM) 

You  an'  me  are  goin'  into  the  convention  together? 
(JiM  nods  once,  and  chews  slowly)  Agin  each 
other.  (Same  bus.  for  JIM.  Pause)  Smoke? 
(Offers  pipe) 

JIM.  (Takes  cud  from  mouth;  hesitates — returns 
it)  Chew. 

JOE.  Set  down.  (They  sit.  JIM  left  of  table — 
JOE  R.  in  rocker)  There's  somethin'  I  want  to  say 
to  you  jes'  between  ourselves. 

(Enter  MRS.  VERNON  L.) 

MRS.  VERNON.  (Comes  back  of  table  between 
the  men)  I  reckon  he's  comfortable. 

JOE.    Jim  an'  me's  talkin'  a  minute,  ma. 

MRS.  VERNON.  (Reassuredly)  Well,  I  got  my 
work.  (Exit  R.) 

JOE.    Jim — (JiM  looks  at  him)    I  been  a  figurin' 


IN  MIZZOURA.  29 

an*  I've  calculated  they's  a  difference  of  about  $600 
'tween  you  an'  me. 

JIM.     (Placidly)     How? 

JOE.  (Rising,  and  closing  door  R.  Returns) 
When  my  Kate  got  through  the  public  school,  you 
said  she  ought  to  go  to  college.  (JiM  nods)  I 
didn't  think  so — I  admit  now  I  was  a  durn  fool. 
(JiM  nods)  You  said  she  had  to  go — an'  she  went 
— to  Linen  wood.  (JiM  chews)  When  she  come 
back  she  taught  me  everything  I  know — I  don't  think 
I  could  go  afore  this  convention  if  it  wasn't  for 
what  Kate's  learned  me — Jim,  I'm  ashamed  to  say 
so,  but  I  let  you  pay  her  schoolin' — I've  figured  out 
it's  a  round  six  hundred  dollars — an'  I'm  goin'  to 
pay  you  every 

JIM.  (Impressively  points  at  him  with  his  whole 
hand)  See  here — (After  a  fateful  pause;  rises) 
Don't  you  ever  say  that  to  me  agen.  (Turns  away) 

JOE.     (Half  rising,  anxiously)     Why,  Jim? 

}IM.     (Turning.     Threatens)    Never. 
OE.     'Tain't  nothin'  to  make  trouble  'tween  us, 
Jim. 

JIM.  (Pauses — growls  slowly)  Whatever  I 
done — was  done — have  you  ever  said  a  word  to  her 
about  it? 

JOE.    Nobody  knows  it,  Jim,  but  you  an'  me. 

JIM.    Man  to  man? 

JOE.    Man  to  man. 

JIM.  (Slightly  relieved)  Well,  I  done  it  fur  her 
— an'  whenever  I  hear  her  purty  voice — soft  an1 
low  like  verses  out  of  a  book — whenever  I  look  at 
her  face — purtier  than  them  pictures  they  put  in 
the  cigar  boxes — and  her  hands  soft  and  baby  like — 
I  feel  'way  down  here  that  I  helped  do  some  of  that. 
An*  do  you  think,  Joe  Vernon,  that  I'd  sell  out  ?  No, 
sir,  not  by  a  damned  sight ! 

JOE.  But  look  here,  Jim,  think  of  me.  We're 
going  in  that  convention  together — agin  each  other 
— for  the  same  office,  and  if  you  was  to  tell 


3o  IN  MIZZOURA. 

JIM.  (Sharp  turn)  Tell!  Don't  move— but 
jus'  draw  breath  enough  to  take  that  back. 

JOE.    (Putting  out  his  hand)    Jim ! 

JIM.  (Pause)  Why  if  anybody'd  said  you  could 
a  thought  them  things ! 

JOE.     (Pleadingly)    Jim! 

JIM.  (Long  pause)  Well,  there—  (Takes  JOE'S 
hand) 

(Enter  MRS.  VERNON  R.  3  E.) 

MRS.  VERNON.  (Nervously)  Joe,  I've  a  notion 
to  holler  to  Kate  to  run  home.  I  don't  like  her 
walkin'  with  that  man. 

JOE.    What  man  ? 

MRS.  VERNON.  Why  Travers.  I  don't  know  what 
Kate  sees  in  him.  (Returns  to  door) 

JIM.  (Comfortingly)  Well,  he's  a  city  chap,  and 
Kate's  so  smart  about  them  things.  Joe,  how  old 
is  Kate? 

JOE.    Twenty,  ain't  she  ma? 
^MRS.  VERNON.     (In  street  door)     Lor*  no — we 
ain't  been  married  but  nineteen. 

JOE.    Seems  longer'n  that  to  me. 

(JiM  looks  at  him,  crossing  to  melodeon,  shaking 
head.) 

TIM.    How  old  is  she,  Mrs.  Vernon  ? 
MRS.  VERNON.    They's  fourteen  months  difference 
'tween  her  an'  Lizbeth. 

(JiM  looks  at  JOE  again.) 

JIM.  Well,  I've  knowed  her  so  long,  she  always 
seems  jes'  a  little  child  to  me — but  Kate's  old  enough 
to  be  thinkin*  o*  gettin*  married,  ain't  she  ? 

MRS.  VERNON.  I  was  mother  of  two  young  uns 
when  \  was  as  old  as  Kate. 


IN  MIZZOURA.  31 

(JiM  looks  at  JOE  again.    JOE  is  a  mixture  of  pride 
and  apology.) 

JIM.  (Leans  over  back  of  chair)  You  know  if  I 
had  my  way  I'd  like  Kate  to  see  everything.  Go  to 
St.  Louis,  and  Europe,  an'  travel.  I've  often  thought 
I'd  like  to  be  well  enough  off  to  take  Kate  an*  jes* 
do  nothin'  but  travel  for  a  whole  summer. 

MRS.  VERNON.  Oh,  folks'd  talk  about  it,  Jim. 
(Down  R.) 

JIM.    Why,  I  mean  married — if  Kate'd  have  me. 

MRS.  VERNON.     (Down)    Oh! 

JOE.  (Explainingly)  Of  course — 'fore  they 
started. 

(JiM  looks  at  JOE  in  amused  disgust.) 

JIM.  An'  you  know,  Mrs.  Vernon,  I've  had  it  on 
the  tip  of  my  tongue  a  dozen  times  to  ask  her. 

MRS.  VERNON.  (Reflectively)  Well, — it  might 
be  the  best  thing  that  could  happen  to  her.  (Pause) 
Kate's  been  awful  restless  lately. 

JOE.  (Heartily)  An'  she  likes  you,  Jim,  better'n 
anybody. 

JIM.  Why,  I  used  to  think  so,  Joe,  but  since  this 

feller's  been  in  the  town (Slowly  crosses  and 

sits  on  table  c.) 

MRS.  VERNON.  Pshaw — I'll  bet  that  mustach  *f 
his'n  is  dyed. 

JOE.  Don't  think  about  him,  Jim,  'cause  if  it 
comes  to  that,  I'll  put  my  foot  down. 

JIM.    Not  if  Kate  liked  him. 

JOE.    Yes,  no  matter  who  liked  him. 
IM.    But  I'd  want  her  to  like  me. 
JOE.    Well,  she  does. 
JIM.    You  think  so. 

}OE.    Sure. 
IM.    Dog  gone  it !    I'd  swap  my  poney  for  a  trot- 
tin'  horse,  an'  git  one  of  them  two-wheeled  carts  an' 


32  IN  MIZZOURA. 

practice  in  it  till  I  wasn't  seasick,  and  me  an'  Kate 
of  a  Sunday — say — driving  through  Bowling  Green ! 

MRS.  VERNON.  (Grinning  in  admiration)  Why, 
Jim!  (Down  R.) 

JIM.  (Growing  with  his  vision)  An'  I'd  run 
that  south  pyazza  all  around  the  house, — and  dog 
gone  it — we'd  have  a  hired  girl. 

MRS.  VERNON.  (Starting  something)  That's  the 
way  to  treat  a  woman,  Joe  Vernon,  an'  if  you  hadn't 
been  brought  up  in  Galloway  County 

JOE.  (Completing)  Why,  Jim,  when  we  was 
fust  married  she  was  so  jealous  we  couldn't  keep  a 
hired  girl. 

MRS.  VERNON.  (Waving  a  hand  at  him)  I've 
got  bravely  over  it.  You  kin  git  one  now. 

JOE.    Well — we  don't  need  one  now. 

(Enter  KATE  D.  F.  R.) 

KATE.  No,  I'm  not  offended,  Lizbeth,  but  it  isn't 
kind. 

JOE.    What's  the  matter?. 

( LIZBETH  and  DAVE  appear  outside  of  door  and 
disappear  sloivly.) 

KATE.    Nothing.    (Crossing  R.  of  rocker)    Jim — 

JIM.    Katie. 

KATE.  You  and  father  are  trying  for  the  Legis 
lature?  (JiM  nods)  A  nomination  in  this  county 
is  as  good  as  an  election,  isn't  it? 

JOE.    (Explaining)    On  our  ticket. 

(JiM  nods.) 

KATE.  You  have  been  very  kind  to  me — kinder 
than  any  man  I  know — you've  stood  up  for  me ;  and 
you've  given  me  lots  of  handsome  presents 

JIM.    Well? 


IN  MIZZOURA.  33 

KATE.  You  have  been  very  kind — I  like  your 
sister  Emily — as  well  as  if  she  were  my  own  sister — 
but  Joe  Vernon's  my  father — he's  an  older  man  than 
you  are 

MRS.  VERNON.  {Butting  in)  Well,  if  he 
wasn't 

KATE.  Wait,  mother (To  JIM)  I  shall  work 

for  him.  (JiM  nods)  In  every  possible  way — I 
know  a  good  many  of  these  delegates — I  know  their 
wives — I  shall  see  them. 

JIM.  (Pause)  Does  politics  make  any  differ 
ence  to  you,  Kate? 

KATE.  His  election  does.  It  means  a  step  out  of 
this  life,  a  breath  away  from  the  shop — it  means  a 

broader  horizon  for  me (  Turns  away  overcome 

by  her  feelings) 

JIM.  (Pause)  .Well,  Joe— I  went  in  this  thing  to 
win • 

JOE.    Don't  mind  her,  Jim. 

JIM.  I  went  in  it  to  win — my  friends  kind  a  put 
it  that  way — anMt  seems  I  ought  to  do  my  best  for 
them — but — I  wish  you  luck,  old  man, — I  wouldn't 
Jake  the  nomination  now — I  didn't  think  Kate  cared. 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE: — VERNON'S  Blacksmith  shop,  adjoining  his 
living-room.  Forge  2  R.  Door  to  living-room 
R.  above  forge.  Bellows  down  stage  below 
forge.  Bench  with  vise  at  left.  Big  doors 
double  up  D.  Trusses  L.  c.  Tub  of  water  back 
of  anvil  R.  c. 

DISCOVERED:— JOE  and  CAL  beating  weld  of 
tire;  ESROM,  a  half-witted  negro — absently 
playing  jew's-harp  on  trusses. 


34  IN  MIZZOURA. 

JOE.  (Wearing  boots  and  leather  apron)  Hand 
me  the  traveller.  (Helper  hands  it  and  drops  tire 
horizontally  on  anvil  while  JOE  runs  traveller  around 
it  inside)  Jes'  the  same  size — give  it  another  heat 
an'  we'll  beat  her  out  a  quarter  inch.  (Crosses  to 
t,.  c.  Helper  puts  tire  into  fire  and  works  bellows) 
Esrom ! 

ESROM.    Yes,  san. 

JOE.  I'm  purty  busy  now,  an'  that  tune — can't 
you  let  up  till  I'm  through? 

ESROM.     Yes,  sah. 

JOE.  (c.)  An'  while  you're  resting  you  might 
bring  another  bucket  o'  water  an'  dump  it  in  this 
tub.  (R.  c.) 

ESROM.  (Going)  Yes,  sah — don't  you  really 
want  to  buy  any  mo'  coke  ? 

JOE.  Not  this  morning,  Esrom.  (Exit  ESROM 
with  jew's-harp  playing)  Ready  ?  (  Takes  tire  from 
fire  and  hammers  weld  out — when  pounding  is  done 
traveller  runs  over  it  as  before.  Enter  MRS.  VERNON 

R.  3) 

MRS.  VERNON.  (R.)  Joe,  can't  you  leave  that 
now? 

JOE.    Course  I  can't  ma — it's  Louisiana  time  now. 

MRS.  VERNON.  Well,  the  breakfast's  spilin'. 
(Exit) 

JOE.  (Calling)  Well,  it's  Dave  an'  his  durned 
alarm  clock — if  I'd  let  Kate  set  it — I  guess  she's  all 
right  now,  Cal.  (Helper  puts  tire  in  fire — last  heat 
ing — JOE  goes  to  trusses  and  lays  wheel  square. 
Enter  SARBER.  SARBER  wears  linen  duster  and 
boots  and  carries  a  whip)  Hello,  Bill. 

SARBER.  (Down  L.)  Hello,  Joe — mighty  nigh 
time.  (Looking  at  watch) 

JOE.  Won't  be  a  minute  longer — soon  as  we 
stretch  her  a  little  and  drop  her  over  this  bunch  of 
bones 

SARBER.  (Examining^  wheel)  Hello,  Cal? 
(Helper  nods)  Fellers  ain't  hurt? 


IN  MIZZOURA.  35 

JOE.  (L.  c.)  Nothin'  ain't  hurt.  (Enter  ESROM 
with  water)  This  wheel's  got  as  purty  a  dish  as  I 
ever  see. 

SARBER.    Don't  know  why  the  durned  weld  broke. 

JOE.  Them  steel  tires  are  hard  to  make  fast  some 
times 

ESROM.    Right  heah,  Joe. 

JOE.    Let  her  go. 

( ESROM  pours  water  into  tub.) 

ESROM.     (Coaxingly)    No  coke  dis  mawnin'? 

JOE.  No.  (  ESROM  exit  L.  c.  To  SARBER,  point 
ing  to  dog  under  bench  L.)  Ever  see  that  chap 
before  ? 

SARBER.    The  dog  ? 

JOE.    Yes. 

SARBER.  Is  that  the  same  one  I  dropped  the  rail 
on? 

JOE.  (Nods)  Me  an'  Jim  put  his  leg  in  splinters 
last  night. 

SARBER.     (Shaking  head  and  smiling)    Jim ! 

JOE.  (Pointing  to  coach)  Looks  like  you  been 
in  the  real  estate  business,  Bill. 

SARBER.    Well,  yes — we  took  a  turn  or  two  at  it. 

(Enter  BOLLINGER  L.  u.  E.) 

BOLLINGER.  Hello,  Sarber,  when's  your  ingine 
start  ? 

SARBER.    Joe's  fixin'  one  of  her  drivers. 

JOE.  (Looking  towards  forge)  Won't  be  a 
minute,  Tom. 

BOLLINGER.  Everybody  waiting  at  the  drug-store 
— we  want  to  go  'fore  it  gets  too  hot, — folks  says 
you're  hanging  back  so  Clark  kin  sell  out  his  sody 
water. 

SARBER.  (Looking  at  watch)  Shake  her  up, 
Joe. 


36  IN  MIZZOURA. 

JOE.  I  guess  we're  ready.  (Two  negroes  of  a 
quartette  enter  and  stand  idly  about.  Takes  tire  with 
helper)  Get  out  of  the  way.  (Drops  tire  on  wheel 
and  adjusts  it.  Drives  pin  through  one  hole.  KELLY 
enters,  looks  at  coach  and  nervously  about) 

JOE.    What's  new  Tom,  about  Sam  Fowler  ? 

BOLLINGER.  (Looking  at  work)  Papers  say  the 
company  has  let  him  go. 

JOE.     Scott  free? 

BOLLINGER.    Yes. 

JOE.    Then  he'll  have  to  pay  his  own  board  now. 

BOLLINGER.    I  reckon. 

(JoE  and  helper  carry  wheel  to  tub  and  chill  the  tire.) 

SARBER.    Think  she'll  stay  now? 

JOE.  As  soon  as  we  get  the  bolts  in  her.  (Two 
other  negroes  enter,  completing  the  male  quartette. 
Enter  TRAVERS)  Look  out. 

(  They  lift  wheel  to  trusses,  and  silently  adjust  bolts. 
As  this  takes  time  the  negroes  fill  in  with 
songs.) 

TRAVERS.  (Coming  down  with  KELLY  R.)  Well, 
what's  up? 

KELLY.     I'm  goin'  to  skip  on  this  stage. 

TRAVERS.     Why  ? 

KELLY.     Too  hot,  see  papers? 

TRAVERS.     No. 

KELLY.  Well,  young  Sam  Fowler  will  know  you 
the  minute  he  sees  you — and  he's  comin'  back  to 
day. 

TRAVERS.  He  can't  get  here  till  to-night,  on  ac 
count  of  the  wash-outs — I'm  going  to  risk  it. 

KELLY.    Well,  I  quit  you. 

TRAVERS.    I  risk  more  than  you. 

KELLY.    All  right,  but  you  don't  risk  me.    You 


IN  MIZZOURA.  37 

went  in  the  car  like  a  blamed  fool  without  a  thing 
on  your  face 

(VILLAGERS  at  door.) 

TRAVERS.    Be  careful. 
KELLY.     Careful?    I  skip. 

(They  turn  up  R.    Enter  JIM  L.  u.  E.) 

BOLLINGER.    Hello,  Jim — Louisiana? 

JIM.     No.     (Kneels  by  dog  box) 

SARBER.    Hello,  Jim? 

JIM.    Ain't  you  late? 

SARBER.    Joe's  keeping  me. 

JIM.     (Pointing  to  door)    Big  load  this  mornm'? 

SARBER.  Yes,  if  they  all  go.  (Returns  to  wheel. 
JIM  goes  in  house  R.) 

KELLY.  (Coming  down  with  TRAVERS)  You'd 
risk  your  neck  for  that  girl? 

TRAVERS.  I'm  all  right  Kelly.  I'll  get  out  to 
night,  but  I've  got  to  see  her  first 

(They  go  up  and  exeunt.) 

BOLLINGER.    Joe. 

JOE.     Yes. 

BOLLINGER.  (Looking  off  carefully)  I  see  Jim 
last  night  after  we  left  here.  He  says  he's  out  of 
the  race  for  legislature. 

JOE.    That's  what  he  says. 

BOLLINGER.    Why  ? 

JOE.    Well,  what  did  he  say  ? 

BOLLINGER.    Personal  reasons. 

JOE.  Well,  that  goes — all  right,  Cal, — put  her  on 
now,  an'  let  'em  get  out. 

(Wheel  is  done — CAL  takes  it  up  to  coach.) 


38  IN  MIZZOURA. 

BOLLINGER.  Well,  you're  jes'  as  good  as  elected 
then,  Joe. 

JOE.     Think  so? 

BOLLINGER.  Sure.  See  here.  (Aside)  Folks 
down  in  Louisiana  thinks  Jim  will  be  the  nominee. 
I'm  goin'  down  to-day  to  bet  fifteen  or  twenty  dollars 
he  won't,  'fore  they  hear  of  it. 

JOE.    No  promises. 

BOLLINGER.  No,  sir-ee  —  put  up,  or  shut  up  — 
I've  got  twenty-two  and  a  half  in  my  pocket  —  some 
of  it's  Clark's,  but  blamed  little. 

(Re-enter  JIM  with  pan  of  milk  —  kneels  by  dog  and 
feeds  it.)        ^ 


SARBER.    Now  stand  out  of  the  way  there. 
BOLLINGER.    Coin',  Bill? 
SARBER.    Soon  as  we  hitch. 

(They    take    wagon    out.      BOLLINGER,    KELLY, 
TRAVERS  and  SARBER  go  out  with  wagon.) 

JOE.     Come   Cal  —  (CAL   turns)      Hash!      (CAL 
exit  R.  3)     Breakfast,  Jim. 
JIM.    Had  it. 
JOE.    Come,  set  with  us.    (Exit,  followed  by  JIM) 

(Enter  TRAVERS.) 

TRAVERS.  Kelly  is  right,  I  should  go  on  that 
poach  —  but  —  I  must  see  Kate  —  they're  at  breakfast 
—  if  I  only  —  yes,  just  a  minute.  (Beckons  KATE) 
I  wish  that  fellow  wasn't  here. 

(Enter  KATE  R.  3.) 

KATE.    Mr  Travers. 

TRAVERS.    I  should  leave  on  that  coach. 

KATE.    Do  I  keep  you? 

TRAVERS.    Yes. 


IN  MIZZOURA.  39 

KATE.    Why? 

TRAVERS.  Because  when  I  leave  Bowling  Green 
now  I  shall  never  come  back. 

KATE.    You — you  are  jesting. 

TRAVERS.  In  dead  earnest.  (Slight  clatter  of 
dishes — KATE  looks  off  R.)  Do  you  care  for  that 
man? 

KATE.  (Coming  down)  I  admire  him.  I  think 
he  is  a  good  and  a  noble  character. 

TRAVERS.    Better  than  I  am. 

KATE.     He  may  be, — but — I  don't  love  him 

TRAVERS.    Do  you  love  me  ? 

SARBER.    (Off)    All  ready,  get  in 

KATE.    The  stage  is  going.     (KATE  turns) 

TRAVERS.    Do  you  love  me? 

SARBER.    Get  in. 

TRAVERS.    Do  you  ? 

KATE.     (Pause)    Yes. 

TRAVERS.  Then  let  them  leave — (SARBER  calling 
t(  git  ap" — and  a  whip  cracks.  We  hear  stage — 
voices  go  )  Will  you  go  with  me — to-night  ? 

KATE.    How — go  with  you  ? 

TRAVERS.    As  my  wife. 

KATE.  But  why  such  haste?  Why  go  as  if  we 
feared  anything? 

TRAVERS.  I  must  go  to-night.  Great  interests 
depend  upon  it.  I  know  your  people  don't  like 
me,  but  I  haven't  time  to  humor  them.  Will  you 
go? 

KATE.    Let  me  think  till  then. 

TRAVERS.  Yes,  good-bye  till  to-night.  (Holds  her 
hand — she  turns  as  if  to  leave)  Kate!  Kate! 
Good-bye.  (Impulsive  turn  and  embrace)  till  to 
night. 

(Enter  DAVE,  from  breakfast.) 

DAVE.  Huh!  (Shortly;  more  a  chuck  than  an 
exclamation.  The  lovers  start)  Oh!  Seminary! 


40  IN  MIZZOURA. 

(TRAVERS  exit  L.  u.  E.) 

DAVE.     (Embarrassed — nodding  off)    Breakfast. 

KATE.    Thank  you.     (Exit  R.  3) 

DAVE.  (Going  to  bench  and  beginning  work  on 
shaft  with  draw  knife)  Well — Lizbeth  don't  know 
so  blamed  much  about  books — (Shakes  head)  But 
— huh — (Shakes  head  again)  I  tell  you — (Works 
hard — enter  LIZBETH  with  pan,  which  she  puts  on 
forge) 

DAVE.     (Commanding)    Come  here,  Lizbeth. 

LIZBETH.  (Crosses  to  DAVE.  Pause)  What? 
(Falling  inflection) 

DAVE.  (Cautiously,  approving  her}  Why,  dog 
gone  it — (Shakes  head)  Huh!  (Swaggers)  I 
tell  you— (Works) 

LIZBETH.     (Wonderingly)     What's  the  matter? 

DAVE.  (Threatening)  If  you  was  to  say  semi 
nary  to  me — (Swaggers)  Huh!  (Works) 

LIZBETH.    (After  pause)    What? 

DAVE.  (Ominously)  Why,  Lizbeth,  the  sooner 
we  git  married  an'  git  out  o'  this  the  better. 

LIZBETH.     (Hopelessly)     Well,  what  kin  I  do? 

DAVE.  (Working)  Dog  gone  it — if  I  had  a 
stidy  job! 

LIZBETH.  (Understandingly)  I  know  that,  Dave. 
(Goes  back  to  pan) 

DAVE.  (Bragging)  An*  you  bet  your  father 
knows  it. 

LIZBETH.     (Portentously)     Well,  I  told  ma 

DAVE.  An'  that's  what  he  said.  If  I  had  a  stidy 
job 

(Enter  EM'LY  L.  u.) 

EM'LY.     Hello 

DAVE.    Why  how  de  do? 

LIZBETH.    Can't  you  come  in? 

EM'LY.    Who's  there?    (Indicates  kitchen) 


IN  MIZZOURA.  41 

LIZBETH.    Only  the  folks  and  Jim. 
EM'LY.     I  want  Jim — say — Sam's  there.     (Off) 
LIZBETH.    Sam  Fowler! — Oh  ma — (Exits  R.) 
DAVE.    Sam — why  see  here.    Sam!    (Goes  up) 

(SAM  enters.    Wears  express  blue  and  a  cap.) 
EM'LY.     (Beckoning)     Sam! 

(DAVE  brings  SAM  down.    Enter  JOE  R.,  followed 
by  MRS.  VERNON,  LIZBETH  and  KATE.) 

JOE.     (Heartily)     Sam,  Sam,  how  are  you? 

SAM.  (Shaking  hands)  I  didn't  know  how  you'd 
feel  about  it. 

MRS.  VERNON.  (Shaking)  Why  Lor',  Sam — I'm 
glad— I'll  bet  Em'ly  kissed  him. 

(KATE  and  LIZBETH  shake  hands  with  SAM.    Enter 
JIM — EM'LY  runs  to  him.) 

EM'LY.    Jim! 

(JiM  puts  his  left  arm  around  EM'LY  and  sits  on 
anvil.) 

SAM.  (Approaching  and  taking  JIM'S  hand,  smil 
ing)  You  didn't  think  I  done  it  did  you,  Jim? 

JIM.  (Nods  at  EM'LY)  No,  not  while  she's  keep- 
in'  house  for  me — ha,  ha! 

EM'LY.    He's  always  stood  up  for  you,  Sam. 

JOE.  Well,"  tell  us  'bout  it,  Sam.  Did  the  papers 
have  it  right? 

(They  are  a  semi-circle  about  SAM.) 

SAM.    Yes,  purty  near. 

JOE.    Did  you  help  the  feller  into  your  car  ? 

SAM.    Yes,  we  were  just  pulling  out  of  the  depot 


42  IN  MIZZOURA. 

when  he  came  a  runnin'  up  to  my  side  door  with  an 
order  from  the  superintendent  for  me  to  carry  him 
as  fur  as  Vinita.  He  ran  alongside  and  put  his 
hand  up,  so  of  course  I  pulled  him  into  the  car. 

EM'LY.    Wasn't  you  scared,  Sam  ? 

SAM.  Why  no — I  thought  he  belonged  to  the  com 
pany  and  he  went  to  work  with  me  sorting  and  fix 
ing  my  express  stuff. 

JOE.    Well,  I'm  durned. 

SAM.  (Intensely  serious)  I  joked  with  him — 
just  like  I'm  joking  with  you — he  was  one  of  the 
nicest  fellows  I  ever  saw. 

JOE.  (Wide  eyed  with  gossip)  Don't  that  beat 
everything  ? 

SAM.  When  we  were  eighteen  or  twenty  miles 
out  an*  I  was  stoopin'  this  way  over  a  box — I  felt 
him  on  my  back  and  grabbing  at  my  arms — why, 
why — even  then  I  thought  he  was  jokin'  and  I 
looked  around  laughin',  and  here  was  his  gun  pokin' 
right  into  my  face. 

MRS.  VERNON.    (Haunted)    Just  think  of  it. 

TOE.    Then  he  tied  you. 

SAM.  What  could  I  do?  There  was  his  gun— 
and  I  wasn't  even  on  my  feet— anybody  could  tie 
a  fellow  that  way — I  could  tie  you,  couldn't  I  ?  (To 

JIM) 

JIM.    If  you  had  the  gun? 

SAM.    Yes. 

JIM.    Well,  rather 

SAM.  (Indignantly)  The  ropes  cut  clean 
through  here  at  my  wrists,  and  there  was  a  mark 
over  one  eye  where  I  fell  against  the  safe — and  then 
the  company  said  I  was  an  accomplice. 

JOE.  Then  I  s'pose  he  jis'  deliberately  packed  his 
little  valise  full  of  green  backs  and— (Pantomimes) 
— got  out! 

SAM.    A  hundred  and  twenty  thousand 

JOE.    Jump  off? 

SAM.    No— got  off  at  a  water  tank. 


IN  MIZZOURA.  43 

JIM.    I  s'pose  you'd  know  him  agin? 

SAM.    Anywhere. 

LIZBETH.  (With  nursery  alarm)  He  must  a 
looked  terrible. 

SAM.  (Common  place)  Well,  he  didn't — nice  a 
lookin'  feller  as  you  want  to  see.  Black  mustache 
— kind  a  curly  hair — looked  a  little  bit  you  know 
like  a  race  horse  man. 

EM'LY.  The  company  said  Sam  wrote  the  super 
intendent's  order  himself. 

SAM.  Oh  yes — got  an  expert  to  swear  it  looked 
like  my  writing. 

EM'LY.    'Tain't  a  bit — like  it. 

JIM.    (To  EM'LY)    Did  you  see  it? 

SAM.  No,  but  I  showed  her  part  of  the  letter  he 
wrote  to  the  newspaper  saying  I  was  innocent. 
(Feels  in  pocket)  Ain't  that  strange  ?  Seems  to  be 
a  kind  hearted  fellow. 

MRS.  VERNON.    Jes*  drove  to  it  I  s'pose  by  drinkr 

SAM.    Here  it  is.     (Hands  paper  to  JIM) 

JIM.    Hello!     (Looks  at  KATE.) 

JOE.     What  is  it? 

(JiM  hands  paper  to  KATE.) 

KATE.  (After  slight  start^— haughtily)  What 
do  you  mean  ? 

JIM.  Oh,  not  you,  Kate.  (Smiling,  to  SAM) 
''Twasn't  Kate  dressed  up  like  a  man — no !  (General 
laugh)  Oh,  I  didn't  think  that.  (KATE  vexed,  goes 
up-stage.  JIM  in  whisper  to  others)  Mad?  (JoE 
shakes  his  head — JIM  nods  interrogatively  to  MRS. 
VERNON) 

MRS.  VERNON.  (Looking  after  KATE)  Well,  I 
can't  see  why. 

(Exit  KATE.) 
JIM.     (After  another  look  after  KATE — to  SAM)" 


44  IN  MIZZOURA. 

LWell,  I  suppose  you  know  you're  watched. 

SAM.    (Indifferently)    How's  that? 

JIM.  There's  a  Pinkerton  here —  come  last  night 
— had  a  letter  to  me  from  the  Chief— sayin'  they 
knew  of  me  an'  hoped  I'd  co-operate  with  this  fellow 
in  watchin'  you — and  they'd  pay  well  for  it. 

SAM.     (Smiling)    What  did  you  say? 

(JiM  shakes  head — goes  up  c.) 
EM'LY    Why,  Jim  kicked  him  off — of  our  stoop. 

(General  laugh — LIZBETH  crosses  to  forge  and  gets 
pan.     ESROM  enters  playing  Jew's-harp.) 

ESROM.    What  about  the  coke,  Mistah  Vernon  ? 

JOE.  (At  forge)  Don't  want  none.  (Suddenly) 
See  here ;  look  at  this  clinker. 

ESROM.  Can't  understand  that — shouldn't  ought 
to  be  no  clinker  in  dat  coke. 

JOE.    Well,  there  it  is — hard  as  flint. 

ESROM.     (Examines  clinker)     Funny  clinker. 

}OE.    Well,  there  it  is. 
IM.    Hold  on,  Joe.    I  shouldn't  wonder  if  that 
was  that  gumbo. 

JOE.    What  gumbo? 

JIM.    The  poultice.    I  throwed  it  among  that  coke. 

JOE.    Yes,  here's  some  only  half  burned. 

ESROM.  (Going)  I  knowed  they  shouldn't  ought 
to  be  no  clinker. 

JOE.    But  look  at  this  red  piece — as  hard  as  a  rock. 

JIM.    (Half  startled)    Why  Joe—  (Looks  at  him) 

JOE.    What? 

JIM.    Well,  nothing 

MRS.  VERNON.  Well,  what  about  breakfast,  every 
body? 

JOE.    Let's  finish  it — come  Sam • 

SAM.    I've  had  mine. 

Joe.    Wett,  come  talk  to  us. 


IN  MIZZOURA.  45 

SAM.    (Going)    All  right — got  heaps  to  tell  you. 
LIZBETH.    How  do  you  like  the  Southern  Hotel? 

(Exeunt  all  but  DAVE  and  JIM.  JIM  takes  clinker 
and  turns  it  carefully  over  in  his  hand.  Then 
looks  through  forge — goes  to  bench  near  dog, 
and  gets  on  hands  and  knees  looking  under  it.) 

DAVE.    What  you  lost  ? 

JIM.  Here  it  is — (Rises)  Some  more  of  that 
gumbo.  (Crosses  to  forge) 

DAVE.    What  you  goin'  to  do  ? 

JIM.  Burn  it.  (Looks  about  as  if  hunting  help) 
Here — come  pump  this. 

(DAVE  crosses  and  takes  bellows.) 

DAVE.    What  do  you  want  to  burn  it  for? 

JIM.     (Ignoring  question)    Say,  Dave 

DAVE.    (Working  bellows)    Well? 

JIM.  You  know  them  old  coal  mines  down  by 
Jonesburg  ? 

DAVE.    Yes. 

JIM.    What  do  they  sell  that  slack  for? 

DAVE.  They  don't  sell  it — they  give  it  to  anyone 
that'll  haul  it  away. 

JIM.  I  wonder  if  they  wouldn't  deliver  it  if  you 
took  a  good  deal. 

DAVE.    Don't  know. 

(JiM   whistles  cheerily  a  moment  and   examines 
gumbo  burning.) 

JIM.  (Pause.  Sitting  on  anvil)  You  seem  under 
the  weather,  Dave. 

DAVE.  (Moodily)  Oh,  I'd  be  all  right,  if  I  had 
a  stidy  job. 

JIM.  (Laughing)  A  steady  job! — why  you've 
been  workin'  nights  ever  since  I  knew  you. 


46  IN  MIZZOURA. 

DAVE.  I  know — but  Joe  says — I — I  ought  to  have 
a  stidy  job. 

JIM.    What's  Joe  got  to  do  with  it  ? 

DAVE.    Well— Lizbeth 

JIM.     (Amused)     Oh ! 

DAVE.  An'  I  think  I  could  get  one  only  he  don't 
gimme  no  time  off  to  look  fur  it. 

JIM.  Wait  a  minute.  (Takes  gumbo  from  fire) 
Yes  sir— she's  gettin'  hot.  (Puts  it  back  and  whist 
les  a  tune) 

DAVE.    I've  almost  made  a  set  o'  furniture  myself. 

JIM.    Have  eh  ? 

DAVE.  Dug  it  out  with  that  little  draw  knife.  I 
tell  you — you  can  make  anything  that's  made  out  of 
wood — with  a  draw  knife. 

JIM.  (On  anvil  again)  Well,  it  seems  to  me, 
Dave,  that  you're  going  at  it  the  wrong  way. 

DAVE.    How's  that? 

JIM.  The  old  man  won't  give  his  consent  till  you 
git  a  steady  job. 

DAVE.    That's  it 

JIM.  And  you  want  a  steady  job  so's  you  can 
marry  Lizbeth? 

DAVE.    Exactly. 

JIM.  Well,  you  marry — marry  Lizbeth  and  you'll 
have  a  steady  job.  (Gets  down.  DAVE,  absorbed 
with  the  idea,  pumps  vigorously)  Hold  on !  (DAVE 
stops,  JIM  takes  gumbo  from  fire  with  tongs  and 
plunges  it  in  the  water)  Yes  sir,  there  it  is — hard 
as  a  rock — and  ain't  it  a  purty  color  ? 

DAVE.    What  you  goin'  to  do  with  it  ? 

JIM.  I  don't  know  but  if  the  Wabash  could  get 
enough  of  it  to  ballast  that  track  that  washes  out 
every  spring,  I  think  they'd  take  it. 

DAVE.  (In  admiration)  Well,  I'm  durned. 
The  raw  gumbo  is  all  along  their  track.  Wouldn't 
cost  you  nothin',  would  it? 

JIM.  Not  if  I  kin  get  that  Jonesburg  slack — ha, 
ha! 


IN  MIZZOURA.  47 

DAVE.     Why,  that's  great! 

JIM.  (Drawing  watch)  It's  a  half  hour  before' 
train  time.  I'll  jump  to  St.  Louis  with  the  scheme. 
(Stands  thinking) 

DAVE.  (Gdtoig)  I  got  to  get  the  leather  put  on 
this  shaft — but  that's  great.  (Exit.  KATE  appears 
in  outside  door) 

KATE.  (Coming  toward  JIM,  who  is  turning 
gumbo  thoughtfully  in  his  hands)  Jim ! 

JIM.  Why  Kate — (Gumbo)  See  here — how's 
this  for  an  idea? 

KATE.  What  did  you  mean — by  this?  (She  ex 
tends  letter) 

JIM.  Why,  just  that.  I  thought  it  looked  like  his 
writin',  same  back  hand,  and  no  shadin'  to  it. 

KATE.    How  could  Mr.  Travers  have  written  it? 

JIM.  Why,  no  use  gettin'  mad,  Kate.  It  kin  look 
like  his  writin',  can't  it? 

KATE.  (Going  to  anvil  and  leaning  on  back  of  it) 
You  don't  like  him,  Jim,  do  you  ? 

JIM.  (Picks  up  old  horse-shoe)  Well — (Me- 
chanically  pounds  gumbo  with  horse-shoe) 

KATE.  *  (Pause)    Not  much 

JIM.    No — not  a  great  deal,  Kate. 

KATE  (Displaying  the  letter)  Do  you  think 
he's  a  bad  enough  man  to  have  done  this  ? 

JIM.  Well,  a  fellow  who  takes  a  risk  like  that — 
to  clear  another  man  who's  been  arrested  in  his 
place  ain't  so  bad. 

KATE.    A  train  robber! 

JIM     Why  I  don't  say  he  done  it. 

KATE.    But  you  think  so. 

JIM,  (Laughing)  Oh  no,  I  don't — there's  a  ten 
thousand  dollar  reward  for  the  right  man. 

KATE.  Then  why  hand  this  letter  to  me?  Why 
imply  it? 

JIM.  Why,  Kate,  I'm  a  friend  of — your  pa's — « 
I'ye  known  you  ever  since  you  was  eight  or  ten  years 


48  IN  MIZZOURA. 

old.  I  don't  know  this  man  Travers — you  don't 
know  him.  He  comes  to  your  house. 

KATE.    Well. 

JIM.    Comes  to  see  you,  don't  he? 

KATE.  (Getting  in  front  of  anvil)  He  does — 
what  of  it  ? 

JIM.  Why — I  don't  think  I'd  like  a  preacher 
of  the  Gospel  if  he  was  to  do  that.  (Pause)  I — I 
never  meant  to  say  anything — but  when  men — other 
men — I  mean  anybody  gets  to  payin'  you  attention, 
why  I'm  afraid  to  keep  still  any  longer 

KATE.     (Turns  away  R.)     To  keep  still 

JIM.  (Advances)  Yes,  I've  been  sheriff  here, 
an'  whenever  I've  had  anything  to  do,  I've  said  to 
myself,  now  don't — do  anything — ugly — 'cause 
Kate — (KATE  turns  toward  him — he  qualifies  tone) 
some  day  you  know — Kate  might  think  more  of  me 
if  I  hadn't  done  it.  You  know  yourself  that  I  quit 
drinkin'  a  year  before  the  local  option — on  account 
of  that  essay  you  read  examination  day — why  Kate 
I  care  more  for  how  you  feel  about  anything  than 
I  do  for  anybody  in  the  State  of  Mizzoura — that's 
just  how  it  is.  (Pause.  KATE  is  silent)  You  kin 
remember  yourself  when  you  was  a  little  girl  an'  I 
used  to  take  a  horse-shoe  an'  tie  it  on  the  anvil  an' 
make  a  side  saddle  for  you — an'  I  reckon  I  was  the 
first  fellow  in  Bowling  Green  that  ever  called  you 
Miss  Kate  when  you  come  back  from  school. 

KATE.  (Rather  tenderly)  I  didn't  want  you  to 
call  me  Miss  Kate,  Jim. 

JIM.  Jes'  fun,  you  know — an'  now  Kate,  when 
you're  a  woman  an'  it's  only  nature  for  men  to 
like  you, — I've  got  to  ask  you  myself. 

KATE.  (Pause)  I'm  awful  sorry  you  did  it, 
Jim. 

JIM.    Sorry ! 

KATE.  Yes,  because  I  like  you  well  enough,  Jim 
— but — (Pause.  Enter  JOE.  KATE  stops) 

JOE.    Say  Jim 


IN  MIZZOURA.  49 

JIM.  (Motioning  JOE  to  silence)  Go  on,  Kate — 
I  ain't  ashamed  of  it — before  Joe. 

KATE.    That's  all  there  is  to  it — I  just  like  you. 

JIM.  Well,  I  didn't  know — you  used  to  let  me 
kiss  you 

KATE.  Yes,  when  I  was  coming  home  from 
school — I  did.  I  thought  I  was  going  to  love  you 
then.  But  there  was  the  school.  (Pause)  If  I 
hadn't  gone  to  Lindenwood  I  might  have  thought 
so  still.  But  we  could  never  be  happy  together, 
Jim — you  haven't  had  proper  advantages  I  know, 
and  it  isn't  your  fault.  My  education  has  put  the 
barrier  between  us.  Those  four  years  at  the  Semi 
nary 

JOE.  (Indignantly)  Why,  Kate  Vernon — every 
thing  you  know  Jim  Radburn 

JIM.  (Imperatively)  Hold  on — (Pause)  You've 
heard  her  say  no,  and — that  lets  you  out.  As  far  as 
I'm  concerned — why  Kate's  nearly  right.  I  don't 
know  any  more'n  the  law  allows — but — that's  for 
Kate  to  say 

(JiM  extends  his  hand  in  appeal  to  KATE.  KATE 
turns  her  back  to  audience — leans  on  anvil, 
firmly  shakes  her  head  no — JIM  motions  silence 
to  JOE;  makes  a  struggle  and  pulls  himself 
together — turns  and  kneels  by  dogf  caressing 

*.) 

CURTAIN 


50  IN  MIZZOURA. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  : — Same  as  ACT  I,  but  tidy.  Doors  closed  and 
lamp  lighted.  Song  in  Blacksmith  Shop  before 
rise  of  curtain. 

DISCOVERED :— DAVE  and  LIZBETH  playing 
checkers  on  home-made  board  down  c.  EM'LY 
and  SAM  looking  on.  JOE  reading  at  L.  KATE 
in  walking  dress  looking  out  window.  MRS. 
VERNON  with  glasses  mending  some  garments. 

JOE.  (Annoyed  by  song — frets.  Goes  to  the 
floor)  Here,  you  boys — don't  hang  around  that 
shop  ;  go  up  in  the  square  an*  sing. 

MRS.  VERNON.    What  you  sen'  'em  away  fur? 

JOE.  Oh,  it's  one  o'  them  blamed  "  mother  "  songs. 
Nobody  ever  sings  anything  about  father — except 
the  "  Old  man's  drunk  again,"  or  somethin'  like  that. 

DAVE.    Your  move,  Lizbeth. 

LIZBETH.     (Petulantly)    Don't  I  know  it? 

SAM.    Move  there. 

DAVE.    Hold  on,  I  can't  beat  both  of  you. 

LIZBETH.  Don't  tell  me,  Sam.  I'd  a  moved  there 
anyway.  Come  on,  Dave. 

KATE.  (Solus)  A  whole  hour  longer ;  I  cannot 
wait. 

MRS.  VERNON.    What's  fretting  you,  Kate? 

KATE.    Everything. 

MRS.  VERNON.  (Indicates  the  melodeon)  Play 
something. 

KATE.    I  can't  play  on  that  melodeon,  mother. 

MRS.  VERNON.  Poor  old  melodeon!  for  all  the 
music  we  git  out  of  it — might  as  well  be  a  folding 
bed. 

ESROM.  (Appearing  at  window)  I  knowed  they 
oughtn't  be  any  clinker  in  that  coke. 


IN  MIZZOURA.  51 

JOE.    (From  his  paper)    That's  all  right,  Esrom. 
ESROM.    Don't  want  no  mo'  coke,  Mistah  ? 
JOE.    No,  no,  no ! 

( ESROM  hands  KATE  a  letter.) 

ESROM.    (Whispering)    He — he  wants  an  answer. 
DAVE.    Hold  on ! 
LIZBETH.    Well,  it's  a  king ! 
DAVE.    Yes — but  I  move  first. 

(A  knock  at  street  door.) 
JOE.    Come  in. 

(Enter  JIM.) 

MRS.  VERNON.    Good-evenin'. 
JOE.    (Not  turning)    Who  is  it? 
JIM.    You're  all  here,  are  you  ? 
JOE.     (Rising)     Hello,  Jim. 
JIM.    (To  JOE)    Hello.    (EM'LY  goes  to  him — he 
puts  his  arm  about  her)    How  long  you  been  here  ? 
EM'LY.    All  day. 
JIM.    What? 

(  JOE  goes  to  the  shelf  at  back  and  fills  his  pipe.) 

EM'LY.    So's  Sam. 

SAM.  Mrs.  Vernon  made  us  stay  to  dinner.  Then 
supper. 

JOE.    Sam  didn't  feel  like  seeing  the  town  folks. 

JIM.    Why? 

SAM.  Well,  I  didn't  know  how  they'd  feel  about 
it. 

JIM.    What,  think  you  did  do  it? 

SAM.    I  didn't  know. 

JIM.  That's  just  the  reason;  why,  if  you  hang 
back,  what  can  they  do  ? 


52  IN  MIZZOURA. 

MRS.  VERNON.  (Explaining)  Well,  Em'ly  was 
here. 

JIM.  I  know,  but  Sam  ought  to  have  spunk  to 
face  'em.  It's  got  to  come  and  you  might  as  well 
know  where  your  friends  are. 

JOE.    That's  so. 

SAM.  (Starting  to  door)  Well,  I  reckon  most  of 
'em's  up  at  the  drug  store. 

JIM.  (Emphatically)  Walk  right  in  amongst 
'em. 

SAM.  Dog  gone  it !  I  ain't  ashamed,  but  if  they 
hint  any  thing  I'd  feel  like  smashing  'em — huh ! 

JIM.    You  got  to. 

SAM.    All  right.    (Exit) 

JIM.    Don't  let  me  stop  the  game. 

LIZBETH.    Dave  thinks  all  night. 

EM'LY  (To  JIM,  pulling  him  around)  Where 
;iave  you  been  ? 

JIM.  St.  Louis.  Been  to  see  the  railroad  people. 
Say,  Joe ! 

JOE.    Yes? 

JIM.    Sam's  got  the  express  people  scared. 

JOE.    How's  that  ? 

JIM.  Hearin'  I  was  his  friend  they  hinted  to  me 
that  they'd  like  to  square  it. 

JOE.    Compromise. 

JIM.  (Nodding  his  head)  I  worked  it  up  for 
him.  Said  Bellinger  was  a  regular  terror. 

EM'LY.  Will  the  express  company  have  to  pay 
Sam? 

JIM.  Well,  rather.  And  after  they  do,  Sam  ought 
to  go  down  to  their  president's  office  and  kick  'em 
all  around  the  back  yard. 


(Exit  KATE  door  R.) 

ailing 
N.    See 
tell  me  alone.    (Exit) 


JOE.    What's  ailing  Kate? 

MRS.  VERNON.    Seems  out  o*  sorts — mebbe  she'll 


IN  MIZZOURA.  53 

DAVE.    (Protesting)    You  can't  move  backwards. 

LIZBETH.    Well  ? 

DAVE.    That's  cornered. 

JOE.    He's  got  you,  Lizbeth. 

JIM.    Dave ! 

DAVE.    Yes  ? 

JIM.    I  saw  the  Wabash  folks. 

DAVE.    Have  a  talk  with  them? 

JIM.  (Hands  DAVE  a  paper)  Yes — there's 
a  memorandum  agreement — they'll  take  all  I  can 
give  'em  at  thirty  dollars  a  car  load. 

JOE.    What's  that? 

( JIM  takes  a  piece  of  gumbo  from  pocket  and  hands 
it  to  JOE.) 

JIM.  (To  DAVE)  Now  I've  got  a  proposition 
for  you. 

DAVE.    What? 

JIM.  You  superintend  the  burnin'  of  the  stuff, 
and  I'll  take  you  in. 

DAVE.    Why,  Jim— (Rises  in  delight) 

JOE.    What's  this  fur? 

JIM.    Ballast. 

JOE.     Ballast? 

JIM.  Yes,  that  road  bed  that  washes  out. 
'(Pause)  Thirty  dollars  a  car. 

JOE.    What! 

JIM.    Me  an*  Dave. 

DAVE.    Why,  Jim,  I  ain't  got  no  claim  on  you. 

JIM.  You  pumped  the  bellows  this  morning  while 
I  burned  it. 

DAVE.    Well 

JIM.    And  you  want  a  steady  job,  don't  you? 

DAVE.  Well — ("I  should  say  so,"  understood — 
turns  to  him) 

JOE.  But  see  here — (JiM  looks  at  him — waits) 
— You  goin'  into  this  ? 

JIM,    Wouldn't  you,  if  you  got  the  contract? 


54  IN  MIZZOURA. 

JOE.    But  Dave — Dave's  helpin'  me ! 

JIM.    You  told  him  to  git  a  job,  didn't  you? 

JOE.    Yes — but 

LIZBETH.     (Ready  for  a  fight)    An'  that's  what 
you  told  me. 

JIM.    (Abetting  LIZBETH)    Yes. 

s.     But  my  business  needs  somebody. 

i.    Then  why  don't  you  let  them  git  married? 

s.    An'  me  support  them? 

[.     (In  disgust)     Hell! 

:.    What's  the  matter? 
JIM.    Ain't  he  worth  his  wages? 
JOE.    I  never  said  he  wasn't. 
JIM.     (In  superlative  display)     And  he's  made 
nearly  a  whole  set  of  furniture. 

JOE.  But  if  I  went  to  Jefferson  I  was  goin'  to 
leave  this  shop  with  Dave. 

LIZBETH  (With  pride)  Dave! 
JIM.  Well,  that's  different.  See  here !  You  let 
'em  get  married.  I  only  want  Dave  to  superintend 
this  burnin' — it  won't  take  two  half  days  a  week 
to  kind  a  look  it  over — we  kin  get  niggers  to  do  the 
work,  and  Dave  kin  stay  here. 

LIZBETH.     Dave ! 

DAVE.     (Hushing  her)    Sh 

JOE.    Well,  I'll  think  it  over  and 

JIM.     (Positively)     No! 

{OE.    No  ? 
IM.     /  can't  fool  with  you,  Joe;  he  gits  the 
girl  or  we  quit. 

LIZBETH.    An*  the  girl  goes  too. 

JOE.    What? 

JIM.  Yes,  the  girl  goes  too.  (Pause  and  smile) 
It's  your  say,  Joe.  (Foot  on  chair)  Well,  Joe,  it's 
up  to  you. 

JOE.     (Giving  up)    Well,  I  can't  help  it. 

JIM.  (Passing  the  approval  to  DAVE  and  LIZ- 
BETH)  There's  your  girl.  And  you've  got  a  stiddy 
job!  (DAVE  and  LIZBETH  half  embrace)  What  do 


IN  MIZZOURA.  55 

you  think  of  that?  (To  JOE,  who  is  mechanically 
looking  at  gumbo)  Thirty  dollars  per  car. 

JOE.     (Glad  to  change  the  subject)     Thirty,  eh? 

JIM.    Every  per  car — and  see  here — Joe 

JOE.    What? 

JIM.  (Draws  second  paper  from  pocket)  I've 
fixed  up  a  kind  of  a  resignation  here. 

JOE.     Resignation  ? 

JIM.  Yes.  I  can't  tend  to  this  new  business  and 
do  much  work  as  sheriff,  so  I'm  goin'  to  resign  the 
sheriff  part  of  it. 

JOE.  You  mustn'  do  it,  Jim — why  you've  been 
keepin'  the  district  like  a  prayer  meeting ! 

JIM.  Well,  somebody  else  kin  sing  the  Doxology 
— you  turn  that  into  the  council  fur  me. 

(Enter  KATE  and  MRS.  VERNON  R.  3  E.) 

MRS.  VERNON.  I've  put  my  foot  down,  Kate,-^ 
you  can't  go. 

KATE.    I  am  going. 

MRS.  VERNON.  Joe  Vernon,  it's  time  you  took 
a  hand  a  managin'  this  family. 

JOE.    What's  the  matter  ? 

MRS.  VERNON.    I've  told  Kate  she  can't  go  out. 

JOE.    Well,  Ma, — Kate  ain't  a  child. 

MRS.  VERNON.  Your  carelessness'll  make  her 
disgrace  the  whole  family. 

JOE.    Hoi'  on,  ma. 

MRS.  VERNON.  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about. 
I  see  that  nigger  give  Kate  a  letter. 

JOE.    Why,  he  don't  know  how  to  write. 

MRS.  VERNON.  You  don't  suppose  I  think  the 
nigger  wrote  it !  It's  from  some  one  else. 

JOE.    Who  is  it  from,  Kate? 

KATE.  I  don't  care  to  tell.  I'm  going  out.  (L.  c. 
starts  R.) 

MRS.  VERNON.  (Interposes)  No,  Kate,  you 
ain't. 


56  IN  MIZZOURA. 

JOE.    Why,  ma — if  Kate  wants  to  go  walkin' • 

MRS.  VERNON.  All  right,  she  kin  walk.  But 
getting  letters  sneaked  to  her  and  going  out  to  meet 
a  man's  another  thing.  (Persuasively  going  to  her) 
Why  don't  you  tell,  Kate  ? 

KATE.  (Down  to  end  of  table  R.)  No  one  has 
a  right  to  my  letters. 

JOE.  Of  course  not.  No  right,  Kate,  but  your 
ma's  naturally  anxious,  and  she's  only  tryin'  for 
your  good. 

KATE.  (Ready  to  weep)  I'm  awfully  tired  of 
it. 

JOE.  But  you  kin  tell  me — you  ain't  ashamed  of 
it,  air  you? 

KATE.    No,  I'm  not ! 

MRS.  VERNON.    It's  Travers,  ain't  it  ? 

JOE.    (Coaxing)    Is  it,  Kate? 

KATE.    Yes,  it  is. 

JOE.  Well,  there,  ma — see  (Walks  away  as  tho' 
matter  were  closed.  Crossing  L.) 

MRS.  VERNON.  Air  you  losin'  you  senses,  Joe 
Vernon  ? 

JOE.     (Irritated)     The  girl's  tole  you,  ain't  she? 

MRS.  VERNON.  And  jes'  what  I  thought,  too. 
She's  goin'  to  meet  him. 

KATE.  Well,  what  of  it?  You're  polite  enough 
to  his  face. 

MRS.  VERNON.  Of  course,  if  he'll  come  here  like 
a  man.  But  when  I  was  a  gurl — it'd  a  been  an  insult 
fur  a  man  to  send  a  note  askin'  her  to  meet  him 
after  dark. 

JOE.  (Loudly  chaffing)  Oh,  ma— now  don't 
forget 

MRS.  VERNON.  You  upholdin'  her?  Jim,  that's 
the  way  I  have  to  fight  to  keep  this  family  straight. 
What's  your  opinion? 

JIM.  Well,  'tain't  no  business  o'  mine,  Mrs.  Ver 
non,  and 

MRS.  VERNON.    Do  you  like  his  looks  ? 


IN  MIZZOURA. 

JIM.     (Pause)     He  ain't  jes'  my  kind — b«t 
be  he  don't  like  mine. 

MRS.  VERNON.    Do  you  uphold  his  sending 
to  Kate  ? 

JIM.  Why,  Mrs.  Vernon,  I  can't  blame  otfcer 
men  fur  likin'  Kate. 

MRS.  VERNON.    Meetin'  them  after  dark? 

JIM.  Kate  knows  how  I  feel  about  her — (Pau*t) 
And  if  she  wanted  my  opinion  I'd  give  it  to  her — 
but  on  the  other  hand — I've  got  an  awful  lot  o* 
confidence  in  Kate. 

MRS.  VERNON.  Why  don't  you  answer  his  fetter, 
Kate,  an'  say  you'll  be  happy  to  receive  him  at 
your  home?  He  won't  think  none  the  less  of  you. 

KATE.  I've  promised  to  meet  him,  and  I'm  going 
to  keep  the  appointment. 

MRS.  VERNON.    Is  she,  Joe? 

JOE.    Well,  Ma,  I  can't  tie  her. 

MRS.  VERNON.    Take  Lizbeth  with  you. 

KATE.    I  don't  want  Lizbeth  with  me. 

LIZBETH.    I  won't  play  proprietary  for  her ! 

KATE.    (Starting  up)    I'm  going  alone.    (Crostes 

R.) 

MRS.  VERNON.  (With  her  back  to  street  door) 
Not  this  door,  you  ain't. 

KATE.  Then  the  other.  (Exit,  -followed  by  Mas. 
VERNON) 

MRS.  VERNON.  (As  she  disappears  by  door  i. 
JVe'llsee! 

(Enter  BOLLINGER  from  street.) 

BOLLINGER.     (In  great  excitement)    Say,  bojn — 

man  killed  up  at  Clark's 

JOE.     (Catching  the  thrill)    Man  killed? 
BOLLINGER.     Yes. 
LIZBETH  and  EM'LY.    Oh! 
JOE.     Run  over? 
BOLLINGER.    Shot. 


58  IN  MIZZOURA. 

ALL.    Shot ! 

BOLLINGER.  (Revelling  in  the  gossip)  Travers 
shot  him.  Sam  Fowler  came  in  the  drug  store  and 
the  minute  he  saw  him  he  said  "  That's  the  man 
robbed  my  car " 

JIM.     (Quietly)     What's  he  look  like? 

BOLLINGER.  (Impatiently)  Why,  Travers — Sam 
says  that's  the  man — and  Travers  started  for  the 
window — stepped  right  into  the  perfumery  case, 
then  on  the  sody  water  counter,  and  this  fellow 
grabbed  him.  First  we  see  Travers  had  his  gun 
right  against  the  fellow's  neck  and — bang — he 
turned  around  with  both  hands  up,  this  way,  and 
kneels  down  right  at  Bill  Saber's  feet. 

EM'LY.    And  Sam? 

BOLLINGER.  Oh,  Sam's  all  right — say,  kin  one 
of  you  boys  lend  me  a  gun — we're  huntin'  fur  him. 

JOE.    Hunting  who? 

BOLLINGER.  (Intolerant  of  JOE'S  stupidity)* 
Why,  Travers. 

JIM.     (In  quiet  contrast)    Where'd  he  go? 

BOLLINGER.  Right  through  the  window — knocked 
over  both  them  green  lights — kicked  a  box  o' 
lickerish  all  over  the  sidewalk — kin  you  spare  one? 

JOE.  (Bustling  about)  I  ain't  got  but  one,  and 
I  reckon  I'll  take  a  hand  myself. 

JIM.  (To  EM'LY)  Come,  little  gal,  we  got  to 
go  home. 

JOE.  (At  door  R.  Calls)  Ma — ma ! — Say,  Jim, 
you  can't  resign  to-night — I  knowed  they'd  be 
trouble  if  you  quit. 

JIM.  Better  meet  at  the  Court  House.  (Exit 
with  EM'LY  and  passes  window  going  L.) 

(Enter  MRS.  VERNON.) 

JOE.    Where's  my  gun? 

MRS.  VERNON.    What  you  want  it  fur? 


IN  MIZZOURA.  59 

JOE.  (Who  is  running  a  circle)  What  do  you 
s'pose — fry  eggs  ?  Where  is  it  ? 

LIZBETH.    Travers  killed  a  man. 

MRS.  VERNON.  (Adding  her  part  to  the  hub 
bub)  Lor'!  Travers! 

JOE.    Where  is  it,  Lizbeth? 

BOLLINGER.  Ain't  you  got  anything  you  kin  lend 
me? 

MRS.  VERNON.    Here  it  is.    (Hands  gun) 

JOE.    Loaded  ? 

MRS.  VERNON.    Don't  pint  it. 

JOE.     That — the  butt  end — come  on! 

BOLLINGER.  A  butcher  knife's  better  than  noth 
ing. 

LIZBETH.    Here!     (Hands  knife  to  BOLLINGER.) 

DAVE.  (As  LIZBETH  holds  him)  You  don't 
think  I'm  scared. 

(Exuent  BOLLINGER  and  JOE.) 

MRS.  VERNON.  I  don't  want  you  to  shoot  any 
body,  Joe,  pint  it  in  the  air. 

(DAVE  exit;  when  off  calls  "  Good-bye!") 

MRS.  VERNON.  (Impatient  in  doorway)  I  can't 
see  what  business  it  is  of  Dave's  when  they's  three 
policemen  in  town;  uniforms — where's  Em'ly? 

LIZBETH.    Jim  took  her  home. 

MRS.  VERNON.     Did  somebody  say  Travers? 

LIZBETH.    Yes. 

(Enter  KATE  R.) 

KATE.    What  is  it? 
LIZBETH.    Travers  shot  a  man. 
KATE.    What  man — why  ? 

MRS.  VERNON  (Accusingly)  Jus'  natural  devil 
try — purty  pass  things  is  coming  to ! 


6o  IN  MIZZOURA. 

KATE.    Whom  did  he  shoot  ? 
LIZBETH.     We  don't  know — shot  him  here,  in 
the  neck. 

(Enter  SARBER  from  street,  hurriedly) 

SARBER.    Hello,  where's  the  boys? 

MRS.  VERNON.    Have  they  ketched  him  ? 

SARBER.  Don't  know — we're  all  huntin' — (Starts 
off) 

KATE.    (Quickly)    Mr.  Sarber 

SARBER.    Eh  ? 

KATE.    Who  is  hurt? 

SARBER.  (Shouting)  Don't  know  his  name — 
Clark  stuffed  the  hole  full  of  cotton.  (Indicating 
neck)  Says  City '11  have  to  pay  for  his  green  lights 
and  lickorish. 

KATE.    Did  Mr.  Travers  shoot  the  man? 

SARBER.  Yes'm — nearer  than  you  an'  me — which 
way'd  they  go? 

LIZBETH.    Court  House. 

SARBER.    Been  an  awful  hot  day.     (Exit) 

KATE.  (In  haunted  fear)  What  have  you  heard 
about  it  ? 

MRS.  VERNON.    Why  it  don't  surprise  me,  Kate. 

LIZBETH.    They  say  Travers  is  the  train  robber — 

KATE.    Lizbeth ! 

LIZBETH.  Sam  Fowler  knew  him  the  minute 
he  saw  him — that's  why  Travers  had  to  shoot — to 
git  away! 

MRS.  VERNON.    Not  Sam? 

LIZBETH.    No,  didn't  shoot  Sam. 

KATE.  There  has  been  some  mistake — these 
people  have  never  liked  Mr.  Travers. 

MRS.  VERNON.  I  knowed  he'd  bring  disgrace  on 
the  whole  house,  Kate.  (Getting  sun-bonnet)  I'll 
go  in  through  Mrs.  Clark's  back  way — she'll  know 
— come,  Kate,  I'm  your  mother,  and  a  mother  never 
deserts  her  child.  (In  stage  heroics) 


IN  MIZZOURA.  61 

KATE.     (Recoiling)     I  don't  care  to  go. 

LIZBETH.    Take  me,  ma. 

MRS.  VERNON.    Come  on.     (Exit  with  LIZBETH) 

KATE.  {In  wild-eyed  panic)  Oh,  how  dreadful ! 
This  is  what  I  have  felt  coming  all  the  day.  It  is 
my  fault  too.  If  I  had  said  yes  last  night,  or  only 
gone  with  him  this  morning — it  couldn't  have  hap 
pened.  How  horrible ! — killed  a  man !  They  didn't 
tell  me  whom.  I — I  wonder  if  my  name  was 
mentioned?  They  said — Lizbeth  said — a  train- 
robber — (She  leans  on  table  for  support)  That 
letter!  Jim  thought  the  writing  looked  like  his. 
Jim — Jim  has  told  others  his  suspicion — Yes — Jim 
Radburn  has  done  it!  I  see!  I  see!  Jim  hated 
him — they  have  persecuted  him  for  me — Oh !  Oh ! 
Why  did  I  not  go  last  night? 

{Enter  TRAVERS,  pale  and  breathless — revolver  in 
hand.     He  closes  the  door  behind  him.) 

TRAVERS.    Kate ! 

KATE.    Oh! 

TRAVERS.    Who's  there?     (Points  toward  shop) 

KATE.  No  one.  What  is  the  matter?  Tell  me 
what  you  did — that  pistol ! 

TRAVERS.  In  self-defence — they  would  have  killed 
me  if  they  could. 

KATE.    You  shot  him? 

TRAVERS.  Yes.  (As  she  hides  her  face)  Kate! 
Kate!  I  can't  come  in  front  of  the  window — 
where  can  I  go? 

KATE.  They  will  find  you  here.  (He  turns, 
facing  door  with  pistol,  left  hand  holding  door  shut, 
menacingly)  No, — not  that — you  wouldn't  shoot 
again !  My  father  may  come  there ! 

TRAVERS.    Kate !    Do  you  believe  me  ? 

KATE.    Yes. 

TRAVERS.  (Pleading)  In  seU-defence — they 
were  ten — ten  to  one. 


62  IN  MIZZOURA. 

KATE.    You  are  bleeding ! 

TRAVERS.  (Covers  hand)  The  window  cut  me— •» 
give  me  a  drink — I'm  parching.  (She  gets  water  in 
a  dipper  from  bucket  on  bench.  TRAVERS  drinks 
with  the  tin  rattling  on  his  teeth.  Noise  of  a  gallop 
ing  horse  passes — He  drops  the  dipper)  I  don't 
think  they  saw  me  come  in  here. 

KATE.    Why  did  you  come? 

TRAVERS.  Where  else  ?  I  ran — turned  every  cor 
ner  till  I  lost  them.  If  I  can  hide  or  get  a  horse ! 

KATE.  (Doubting  him)  Why  did  they  try  to 
arrest  you  ? 

TRAVERS.  I — I  don't  know,  Kate — some  mis 
take. 

KATE.    They  said  the  express  robbery. 

TRAVERS.    It  isn't  so 

KATE.  (Goes  to  table  and  leans  on  it  with  her 
back  to  TRAVERS)  Ah! 

TRAVERS.  Kate  (Pause)  Kate  (Pause)  you 
must  believe  me!  Why  should  I  be  here  (Pause) 
in  this  little  town 

KATE.    Why  did  you  shoot  ? 

TRAVERS.  I  had  to — they  would  have  killed  me — 
it  is  all  a  mistake — Kate,  Kate 

KATE.    What  shall  we  do? 

TRAVERS.    If  I  had  a  horse • 

KATE.    But  why? 

TRAVERS.    Listen ! 

(There  is  again  the  sound  of  approaching  hoofs.) 

KATE.  Some  one  is  coming — (He  turns  at  bay) 
No — I  couldn't  stand  it — go  in  here — (Opens 
closet)  Quick! 

TRAVERS.  Yes !  (He  enters  the  closet — she  closes 
the  door  of  the  closet  and  throws  open  the  street 
door;  goes  to  table) 

(JiM  rides  into  mew  and  drops  from  his  horse.) 


IN  MIZZOURA. 

JIM.    (Indoor)    Hello? 

KATE.     (Behind  table)     Well? 

JIM.  (After  looking  slowly  about)  Where  is 
he? 

KATE.     I — I — where  is  who? 

JIM.     (In  a  matter  of  course  way)     Travers. 

KATE.    Why  how  should  I  know  ? 

JIM.  Then  why  don't  you  jes'  say  you  don't 
know? 

KATE.  (Behind  chair  L.)  Well,  then  I  don't 
know. 

JIM.     (Shaking  his  head)    Too  late  now. 

KATE.    Too  late? 

JIM.  Yes — if  it'd  been  all  right,  you  wouldn't 
a  tried  to  dodge  me. 

KATE.  (Near  melodeon)  You  may  think  as  you 
choose. 

JIM.     (Pause)     I'm  awful  sorry  for  you,  Kate. 

KATE.    Oh,  you  needn't  be. 

JIM.  (On  the  "  qui  vive")  But  I  want  to  see 
Mr.  Travers. 

KATE.  (In  distress)  You — you  annoy  me  very 
much.  (Sits  left  of  table) 

JIM.  (In  real  tenderness)  Why,  Kate — Katie 
— see  here — I'm  your  friend — they  ain't  any  body 
in  the  world  feels  as  bad  for  you  as  I  do — but  be 
reasonable — it's  only  a  question  of  time.  I  s'pose 
every  man  in  Bowlin'  Green  that  owns  a  gun  or  a 
bowie  knife's  collectin'  up  there  at  the  Court  House 
— your  own  pa  and  Dave — they'll  be  back  here  after 
a  while — and  what  then  ? — don't  you  see  ? 

KATE.  It's  horrible — don't  tell  me  it  is  duty 
makes  them  hunt  a  fellow  man  like  that.  (Rises) 

JIM.  I  don't  pretend  to  know  anything  about 
that — (Pause.  Picks  up  dipper — looks  at  KATE) 
Poor  chap — thirsty — oh,  well — that's  your  business, 
Kate.  (Puts  dipper  on  the  bench) 

KATE.     (At  bay  herself)     You're  not  a  man, 


64  IN  MIZZOURA. 

Jim  Radburn,  you're  a  bloodhound — you  hunt  men. 

JIM.    Yes!     (Pause) 

KATE.    Yes.     (End  of  rocker-chair) 

JIM.  See  here,  Kate — I  want  a  word  or  two 
with  Mr.  Travers.  I  think  the  honestest  thing  he 
ever  done  was  liking  you — I 

KATE.  (Fiercely)  And  that  is  why  you  hate 
him!  You  think  he  likes  me!  You  think  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  him  I  might  have  liked  you!  Well, 
I  do  like  him — (Pause)  that's  why  you  hunt  him! 
It  isn't  your  duty  prompts  you — it's  your  jealousy ! 

JIM.  (A  pause  in  which  he  decides  the  question) 
He's  in  that  closet. 

KATE.     (Turning)     He  is  not. 

JIM.  (Straddling  a  chair  and  facing  closet. 
Speaks  in  ordinary  tone)  Travers,  come  out.  If 
you  don't  come  out,  I'll  shoot  through  the  door. 

TRAVERS.  (Bursting  from  closet  and  levelling 
pistol)  Throw  up  your  hands  ! 

JIM.  (Pause.  In  fateful  monotone)  You're  a 
damn  fool!  The  sound  of  a  gun  now  would  fill 
both  them  streets  with  pitchforks. 

KATE.     Don't — don't — shoot. 

JIM.    Oh,  he  won't! 

TRAVERS.  Do  you  think  you  can  arrest  me — 
alive  ? 

JIM.     It  don't  make  no  difference  to  me. 

KATE.  (Anxiously  pleading)  If  you  are  inno 
cent,  Mr.  Travers — if  you  have  acted  in  self-de 
fence 

JIM.  Wait,  Kate — we  ain't  got  time  to  try  him 
now.  He  ain't  got  time ;  the  boys  are  waiting  up  at 
the  Court  House — Mr.  Travers,  this  young  lady 
likes  you — very  much.  (He  slowly  rises) 

TRAVERS.  (Still  covering  him)  I  know  the 
cause  of  your  hatred,  Mr.  Radburn — I  know  you 
are  here  because  I  love  her. 

JIM.  No,  I'm  here  because  she  likes  you — if 
she  didn't  like  you  'twouldn't  make  any  difference 


IN  MIZZOURA.  65 

to  me  how  quick  we  came  to  terms ;  but  She  likes 
you — your  Pinkerton  friend — (Pause.  Indicating 
neck)  dead — the  boys  are  up  at  the  Court  House. 
Clark  is  pretty  hot  about  them  Jumbo  bottles,  and 
they  wouldn't  be  reasonable — my  hoss  is  standing 
at  the  door — with  anything  like  a  fair  start  he  can 
hold  his  own — Louisiana  town  is  eleven  miles 
away  and  jist  across  from  that  is  Illinois — and 
then  you'll  have  to  look  out  for  yourself — now 
go! 

KATE.     (With  emotional  appreciation)     J*'m! 

JIM.  (With  a  restraining  gesture)  Never 
mind,  Kate. 

TRAVERS.    You  tell  me  to  go? 

JIM.      (Pause)     Yes. 

TRAVERS.  Why,  there's  ten  thousand  dollars' 
reward 

JIM.  For  the  man  that — went — in — that — car — 
but  you  ain't  that  man. 

TRAVERS.     On  your  horse? 

JIM.    Yes. 

TRAVERS.     Kate — (Starts  toward  her) 

KATE.      (Shrinking)      Oh — h ! 

TRAVERS.    (Holds  out  hand)    Jim  Radburn  ! 

JIM.  No — I  give  you  my  horse,  but  I'm  damned 
if  I  shake  hands  with  you ! ! 

(Exit  TRAVERS — KATE  sinks  in   chair  sobbing — 
JIM  in  doorway  regards  her  tenderly) 

CURTAIN. 


66  IN  MIZZOURA. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE: — Exterior  of  JIM  RADBURN'S  cabin-front, 
stoop  and  steps  showing  L.  Rail-fence  partly 
broken  down  is  across  the  stage  at  right  and 
continues  in  painting  on  the  panorama  back  drop 
of  rough  country  with  stacks  of  cord  wood. 
Many  stumps  showing.  A  mud  road  winds  into 
the  distance,  a  stile  crosses  fence  at  3  R. 

DISCOVERED :— JIM  on  step  with  pencil  and 
queer  note-paper,  writing  on  a  piece  of  broken 
board. 

JIM.  Hello!  Dropped  my  pencil.  (Picks  it 
up)  Of  course  fell  on  the  "buttered  side"  an' 
I've  got  to  whittle  it  agin.  (Takes  enormous  knife 
from  his  pocket  and  opens  it) 

(Enter  EM'LY,  with  milk-pails  filled,  from  L.  u.) 

EM'LY.     Say,  Jim 

JIM.     (Whets  knife  on  boot)    Well? 

EM'LY.    You  let  the  pony  out? 

JIM,     (Sharpens  pencil)     No. 

EM'LY.    Ain't  in  his  stall. 

JIM.  I  know.  (EM'LY  looks  at  JIM  a  moment 
and  exit  back  of  house.  Looking  at  paper)  I 
reckon  that's  right — Mayor  and  City  Council — 
(Writes — first  wetting  pencil  in  his  mouth)  Huh 
— I  s'pose  I  ought  to  write  it  in  ink — dog  gone  it — 
(Writing  through  his  speech)  If  it  wasn't  for 
Em'ly  I  wouldn't  care — not  a  damn — (Looks  up) 
I  wonder  whether  it's  U.  G.  or  E.  G.  (Writes) 
I'll  jus'  kinder  round  off  the  top  an'  play  it  both 
ways.  "  Resignation,"  and  after  that,  why  they 
kin  see  me  personally. 


IN  MIZZOURA.  67 

(Re-enter  EM'LY,  with  pails  empty.    EM'LY  sings) 

EM'LY.     (Pause)    Who  did  let  him  out? 

JIM.    Who? 

EM'LY.    Pony. 

JIM.    Me. 

EM'LY.    Why,  I  thought  you  said  you  didn't. 

JIM.  Well,  not  to  pasture;  I  give  him  to  a 
feller. 

EM'LY.     (Surprised)     Give  him? 

JIM.    Yes. 

EM'LY.     Why? 

JIM.  (With  meaning)  He  needed  him  awful 
bad.  (Writes) 

(EM'LY  stands  looking  at  him  a  moment;  then  turns 
to  go.) 

EM'LY.    Say !    (Puts  pails  down) 

JIM.     What? 

EM'LY.     Here  comes  Sam. 

JIM.      (Writing   and   not   looking    up)      Bully 

EM'LY.    You  want  him? 

TIM.    No,  but  I  reckon  you  will. 

EM'LY.     (Smiling)     Git  out. 

JIM.  (Writing)  "P.  S.  This  goes  into  effect 
from  last  night  and  is  a  copy — Joe  Vernon  has 
the  original  document." 

EM'LY.     (On  the  stile.     Looking  off)     Hello! 

SAM.    (Off*.)    Hello! 

(Enter  SAM.) 

EM'LY.     Awful  glad. 

SAM.     Hello,  Jim. 

JIM.     Hello,  Sam. 

SAM.    Know  where  your  pony  is? 

JIM.    Gone  East 

SAM.    He's  in  Louisiana. 


68  IN  MIZZOURA. 

JIM.    Who's  got  him? 

SAM.    Why,  ain't  you  heard? 

JIM.     Ain't  heard  nothing  this  morning. 

EM'LY.    What? 

SAM.  (To  JIM)  Travers  stole  him.  (To 
EM'LY)  Stole  Jim's  pony  after  shootin'  the  Pink- 
erton. 

EM'LY.     Why  Jim 

JIM.  Never  mind,  Em'ly.  (To  SAM)  Who 
told  you? 

SAM.  The  fellers.  You  know  Travers  was — 
er 

EM'LY.  The  train  robber  — yes,  you  told  us  last 
night  that 

SAM.  Yes,  but  I  mean  you  know  he  was — 
killed? 

JIM.  (Rising.  With  some  interest)  Killed? 
When? 

SAM.    Last  night — didn't  you  know? 

JIM.    No. 

SAM.  (Puzzled)  Why,  I  thought  you  did — why, 
the  fellers  said — why,  dog  gone  it  they  were  blamed 
funny  about  it — they  said,  "  oh  I  reckon  Jim 
knows  " — then  stuck  their  tongues  this  way  in  their 
jaw — I  thought  maybe — (Pantomimes  pulling 
trigger) 

JIM.     No,  hadn't  even  heard  of  it. 

SAM.  Going  to  run  an  extra  this  morning — 
over  a  dozen  goin'  down  just  to  see.  Thought 
maybe  Em'ly  'd  like  to  go  'long  and  take  a  look 
at  the  remains. 

EM'LY.     (Eagerly)     Jim! 

JIM.    You're  going,  are  you,  Sam? 

SAM.    Why,  calculated  to. 

JIM.    Well,  I  wish  you'd  stay  home  this  mornin' 
and  kind  a  look  after  Em'ly. 
SAM.     Certainly. 

JIM.     I'm  goin'  to  be  pretty  busy,  I  think,  eh? 
SAM.    (Willing  to  stay)    Sure. 


IN  MIZZOURA.  69 

{Exit  JIM  into  house.) 

EM'LY.  Something's  worrying  Jim.  (Crosses 
to  porch) 

SAM.  I  guess  this  fellow's  getting  away  last 
night. 

EM'LY.  No,  something  else.  The  operator 
waked  me  up  after  twelve  o'clock  with  a  telegram 
— an'  Jim  answered  it  and  then  got  up  and  dressed 
himself  and  took  both  his  guns  and  sat  out  on 
the  porch  here — Oh,  for  an  hour. 

SAM.     Telegrams,  eh? 

EM'LY.    Yes. 

SAM.  Well,  I  guess  some  other  robbery  or  some 
thing.  (Up  R.)  A  sheriff  has  so  much  of  that. 

EM'LY.     I  know.     But  Jim's  worried. 

SAM.     Well,  I  couldn't  sleep  myself  last  night. 

EM'LY.  Me  neither.  After  you  left  here,  and 
a  telling  me  about  it,  it  seemed  I  could  see  Travers 
shooting  the  man's  neck  every  time  I  closed  my 
eyes. 

SAM.    He's  a  good  deal  better  this  morning. 

EM'LY.    Who? 

SAM.    The  Pinkerton  that  was  shot. 

EM'LY.    The  Pinkerton? 

SAM.     Yes. 

EM'LY.     I  thought  he  was  dead. 

SAM.  Oh,  that's  what  Clark  said — but  the  other 
doctor  turned  him  over  and  got  him  breathing 
again. 

EM'LY.  I'm  so  glad — poor  fellow — and  Jim 
kicked  him  so  yesterday — clean  across  that  stile. 

SAM.    When  he  come  here? 

EM'LY.    Yes,  with  that  letter. 

SAM.  Speakin'  of  letters,  I  got  one  myself 
this  morning. 

EM'LY.     (Gets  letter  from  pocket)    Who  from? 

SAM.    Looks  like  a  girl  wrote  it. 

EM'LY.     What! 


70  IN  MIZZOURA. 

SAM.  It's  in  typewritin'  an'  so  I  guess  a  girl 
did  write  it — but  it's  from  the  company. 

EM'LY.     More  mean  things? 

SAM.  Nicer  than  pie.  See  here.  (Reads:) 
"And  regretting  deeply  our  error,  we  of  course 
cannot  deal  with  any  lawyer  but  would  be  pleased 
with  a  personal  call  from  you — your  salary  awaits 
you  for  the  time  you  have  been  absent 

EM'LY.     (Indignantly)     Been  absent! 

SAM.    And  they  having  me  locked  up  in  a  hotel. 

EM'LY.     I  should  say  so. 

SAM.  (Reading:) — "  been  absent.  And  we  can 
guarantee  your  regular  employment  in  our  offices 
here  or  at  any  other  station  you  may  prefer.  Yours 
very  truly,  etc., — Superintendent." 

EM'LY.    Well,  what  do  you  think? 

SAM.  Not  much— Bellinger  says  we  can  get 
twenty  thousand  dollars. 

EM'LY.  I  know— that's  what  he  told  Jim  too— 
he  wanted  us  to  put  off  the  wedding. 

SAM.    Jim? 

EM'LY.    No — Bellinger 

SAM.    Why? 

EM'LY.    He  said  it  would  make  a  stronger  case. 

SAM.      (Resenting   the  idea)     Well,   see   here, 

Em'ly 

"EM'LY.      I'm   only   telling   you   what   Bellinger 

said. 

SAM.     Put  off  our  wedding? 

EM'LY.    He  said  for  about  two  months. 

SAM.    What's  he  take  me  for? 

EM'LY.    Jim  heard  him. 

SAM.    What  did  Jim  say? 

EM'LY.  He  said— why  he  said  that  was  about 
ten  thousand  a  month,  just  for  waiting. 

SAM.     No,  sir-ee. 

EM'LY.  An'  Bellinger,  tryin'  to  encourage  me 
said  he'd  let  his  wife  go  that  long  for  half  the 
money. 


IN  MIZZOURA.  71 

i 

SAM.    Well,  do  you  think  it's  right  ? 

EM'LY.    What? 

SAM.     Why,  this  postponing  for  damages. 

EM'LY.  Not  if  you  don't — only  Bellinger  said 
it  wouldn't  hurt  any  to  wait. 

SAM.  See  here,  Em'ly — seems  to  me  you  ain't 
any  too  anxious  you'self. 

EM'LY.  Well,  how  can  a  girl  be,  Sam — I  can't 
just  up  and  say  I  won't  wait — especially  when 
they're  your  damages — I  haven't  got  any  right  to 
say  I'm  worth  ten  thousand  dollars  a  month. 

SAM.  (Embracing  her)  Well,  you  bet  your 
life  you  are. 

EM'LY.     (Acquiescing)     Well 

(Enter  DAVE  and  LIZBETH.) 

DAVE.     Hello,  Sam. 

SAM.     Hello. 

LIZBETH.  (Pleased  with  the  example  of  SAM 
and  EM'LY)  Dave! 

EM'LY.    Why,  how  do  you  do? 

DAVE.    Where's  Jim? 

SAM.    In  the  house. 

LIZBETH.  Isn't  it  awful,  Em'ly?  (She  and 
EM'LY  go  to  the  little  porch) 

SAM.    What's  the  matter? 

DAVE.    People  don't  understand  it. 

SAM.    What  do  you  mean? 

DAVE.    Why,  Jim ;  lots  of  'em  thinks  he  did  it. 

SAM.     Did  what?    Shoot  Travers? 

DAVE.    No,  give  him  that  horse 

SAM.    Give  to  him  ?    Git  out. 

DAVE.  Well,  you  bet  they  said  so,  and  BoUinger 
and  Sarber  and  Cal  and  lots  of  them  think  so. 

SAM.     (Astonished)     Git  out! 

DAVE.    Yes,  sir-ee. 

SAM.    They  better  not  say  that  to  me. 


72  IN  MIZZOURA. 

DAVE.  Why,  they'd  say  it  to  Jim — you  ought  to 
hear  them  talking  at  the  convention 

SAM.    Is  this  the  day  of  the  convention? 

DAVE.  'Tain't  come  to  order  yit  but  they're  all 
up  to  the  Court  House, — one  feller  nailed  the  tele 
grams  on  a  bulletin  where  everybody  could  read 
them. 

SAM.     What  telegrams? 

DAVE.    Why,  Jim's. 

(Enter  JIM  from  house.) 

JIM.     Mornin',  Lizbeth. 
LIZBETH.     How  de  do,  Jim. 
JIM.    Kate  feelin'  all  right? 
LIZBETH.    Well,  you  know- 


JIM.  Oh,  yes — natural  enough — ain't  you  work- 
in',  Dave? 

DAVE.    Convention. 

JIM.    Sure.    Forgot  the  convention. 

DAVE.  Me  and  Lizbeth  come  together  because 
we  thought  Sam  and  Em'ly'd  stand  up  with  us. 

JIM.     At  the  Squire's? 

DAVE.     No,  preacher's. 

JIM.     I  reckon. 

(Looks  at  EM'LY.) 

EM'LY.    Of  course. 

JIM.    Convention  ain't  met? 

DAVE.     Not  yit. 

JIM.  I  think  I'll  go  down  to  the  Court  House. 
(Starts  down  and  stops  as  he  reaches  the  stile) 
Hello! 

SAM.    What's  up? 

JIM.  Nothing* — some  o'  the  boys — comin'  here, 
I  expect — Say! 

SAM.     What? 

JIM.    I  mean  Dave.    (R.  c.) 


IN  MIZZOURA.  73 

DAVE.     How's  that? 

JIM.    Will  you  do  me  a  favor? 

DAVE.     Certainly. 

JIM.  (Pointing  off  R.)  This  letter — give  it  to 
the  Mayor,  or  any  of  the  Council — some  of  them's 
sure  to  be  at  the  convention. 

DAVE.  All  right.  (He  goes  onto  the  stile  and 
stops)  Bollinger's  one,  ain't  he? 

JIM.    Yes. 

DAVE.     He's  comin'  with  them  fellers 

JIM.  Well,  give  it  to  him — a  little  before  he  gits 
here. 

DAVE.  All  right,  Jim.  (Starts  off— stops)  No 
trouble,  you  don't  reckon? 

JIM.    No,  I  reckon  not. 

(Exit  DAVE.) 

EM'LY.    Jim ! 

JIM.  I  want  you  and  Lizbeth  to  go  in  the  house. 
Go  on! 

EM'LY.     (Going}     What's  the  matter? 

JIM.  You  go  with  them,  Sam — and  take  care 
of  'em. 

SAM.  (Joining  the  girls  on  the  porch)  Why, 
Jim,  if  there's  goin'  to  be  any  trouble 

JIM.  (Watching  the  coming  mob)  I  reckon 
they  ain't — and  anyway  I  want  this  side  of  the 
fence  by  myself.  (Exeunt  LIZBETH  and  EM'LY  to 
house)  Take  'em  way  back  to  the  kitchen. 

SAM.    (At  the  door)    All  right? 

JIM.     Dead  sure. 

(Exit  SAM.  JIM  removes  his  paper  collar — adjusts 
the  two  guns  under  his  coat-tails — takes  a 
chew  of  tobacco  and  fatefully  waits.  Enter 
back  of  fence  R.,  BOLLINGER,  SARBER,  CAL, 
ESROM,  DAVE,  and  Supers;  DAVE  drifts  away 
from  them  to  L.  ESROM  playing  Jew's-harp; 


74  IN  MIZZOURA. 

all  enter  when  JIM  gets  through  his  preparations 
and  leans  against  porch.) 

BOLLINGER.     (Loudly)     Here,  stop  the  band. 
SARBER.     Stop  her. 

(ESROM  is  silent) 

BOLLINGER.     (Pause)     Hello,  Jim.     (His  tone 
carries  a  nagging  insinuation) 
JIM.    Hello. 

DAVE.     I'll  tell  the  old  man,  Jim.     (Going) 
JIM.     Oh,  no  hurry,  Dave. 

(Exit  Dave.) 

BOLLINGER.  Well,  they  killed  our  friend  down  at 
Louisiana  last  night.  (JiM  chews  and  nods  once) 
Where's  your  pony? 

JIM.  (After  pause)  Have  you  looked  in  the 
stable? 

BOLLINGER.     (Sneering)     No. 

JIM.     Well,  don't. 

BOLLINGER.  Didn't  calculate  to,  Jim.  (Pause) 
You  know  what  that  fellow  said  before  they  shot 
him. 

JIM.     (Shakes  his  head)     No. 

SARBER.  (In  quarrelsome  bawl.  Pointing  at 
JIM)  Why,  he  said 

BOLLINGER.  (Maintaining  his  leadership)  Hold 
on!  it  was  understood  I  was  to  do  the  talkin'. 

ALL.    Go  on !    Shut  up,  Sarber ! 

SARBER.    He  was  takin'  all  day  fur  it. 

BOLLINGER.  (Clashing)  I'll  take  as  long  as  I 
damn  please,  and  I'll  have  the  nigger  play  tunes 
between  times  if  I  want  to 

ALL.    Go  on,  Bellinger ! 

BOLLINGER.  (Resuming  his  nag  of  JIM)  Know 
what  he  said? 


IN  MIZZOURA.  75 

JIM.  (Pause.  Chews  and  shakes  head)  Don't 
care. 

BOLLINGER.     He  said  you  give  him  the  pony. 

JIM.    You  hear  him  say  so? 

BOLLINGER.  No,  but  the  boys  down  Louisiana 
did;  they  knowed  it  was  your  pony,  and  they  ar 
rested  him. 

SARBER.  (Again  intruding)  Then  they  tele 
graphed  you 

BOLLINGER.  Hold  on!  (Growl  from  mob) 
They  didn't  know  he  was  the  train  robber — only 
thought  he  was  a  hoss  thief — so  they  held  him  while 
they  telegraphed  you — (JiM  nods — pause)  That's 
the  way  we  got  on  to  him — the  operator  showed  us 
the  message — (Pause.  JIM  nods)  Showed  us 
your  answer  too.  (Pause.  JIM  nods)  Here's  a 
copy  of  it  marked  Exhibit  B.  "The  man  tells  the 
truth.  The  pony  is  his'n — Jim  Radburn." 

SARBER.    And  we  saw  the  original. 

(JiM  nods.) 

BOLLINGER.  (His  anger  now  lifting  his  tone  into 
police  court  tirade)  While  we  were  waiting  up  at 
the  Court  House  where  you  told  us  to  go — and  I 
didn't  have  a  durn  thing  but  a  butcher  knife — you 
were  a  standin'  in  with  this  feller  and  a  givin'  him 
your  hoss  to  git  away  on. 

SARBER.  (In  same  manner)  And  durn  good 
reason — Sam  Fowler  stood  in  with  him,  an'  he's 
a  goin'  to  marry  your  sister — in  the  house  now — 
I  kin  see  him  at  the  kitchen  window.  (All  growlf 
and  half  start  over  the  stile  toward  kitchen) 

JIM.  (With  sudden  vehemence)  Hold  on! 
(Impressive  pause;  and  quiet  by  crowd)  You 
better  talk  it  over  with  me  first. 

BOLLINGER.  Well,  you  give  him  the  pony,  didn't 
you?  (JiM  is  silent)  Didn't  you? 

JIM.    What's  that  to  you? 


76  IN  MIZZOURA. 

BOLLINGER.  (Half  laughing)  Well— what  is 
it  to  us 

(All  laugh  derisively.) 

ESROM.  (Emboldened  to  participate)  I  knew 
'twasn't  no  clinker  in  de  coke,  'cause  he  frowed 
de  mud  in  it  and 

BOLLINGER.    Shoot  that  nigger. 

SARBER.  Shut  up!  (Smashes  Nigger  in  the 
mouth) 

BOLLINGER.  (To  JIM)  Well,  say — (Pause) 
That  was  a  fine  way  for  a  sheriff  to  do, — wasn't  it  ? 

JIM.    I've  resigned. 

^  BOLLINGER.  I  got  your  letter.  You  hadn't  re 
signed  last  night;  you  know  there's  a  law  for  you, 
Mr.  Radburn. 

JIM.     That's  all  right. 

BOLLINGER.    You'll  have  to  "  do  time." 

JIM.     (Smiling)    When? 

BOLLINGER.  This  session — you  git  a  taste  of  the 
jug  this  morning. 

JIM.    Not  this  morning? 

BOLLINGER.     Well,  we'll  see — you  go  with  us 

(Murmur  and  start.) 

JIM.  (Again  in  sudden  warning)  Hold  on, 
boys — (Pause  and  recovery  of  calm)  I  claim  every 
thing  this  side  of  the  fence.  Now  I  know  it  ain't 
sociable  but  I  don't  want  you  to  come  in.  When 
ever  the  District  Attorney  gits  his  witnesses  to 
gether,  I'll  be  there,  but  I  won't  go  this  mornin' — 
(Pause)  and  any  how  I  won't  go  with  such  a  mangy 
lot  of  heelers  as  you've  scraped  up  this  trip. 

BOLLINGER.     I  reckon  you  will,  Jim. 

(Murmur  and  movement.) 


IN  MIZZOURA.  77 

JIM.  Hold  on — (Pause,  with  both  hands  .on 
guns)  I  don't  want  to  break  my  record,  but  I'll 
have  to  do  it  if  you  trespass  on  the  lawn. 

BOLLINGER.  (Discreetly  on  stile.  After  a 
pause)  I  hope  you  don't  think  we're  scared,  Jim? 

JIM.  No — ain't  anything  to  be  scared  about, 
Tom — as  long  as  you  stay  outside — Keep  off  the 
grass. 

BOLLINGER.  (His  irritation  returning.  Threat 
eningly)  And  don't  you  dare  to  draw  a  gun  on 
any  of  us.  Say,  Sarber — go  down  to  the  Court 
House  and  git  a  warrant.  If  you  had  a  warrant 
we  could  walk  right  in. 

MRS.  VERNON.    (Off  R.)    Now,  Kate,  be  careful. 

(Enter  KATE  and  MRS.  VERNON  over  the  stile> — the 
mob  parting  to  admit  them.) 

KATE.    What  is  the  matter  ?    Jim ! 

JIM.    Won't  you  come  in  ?   Howdy,  Mrs.  Vernon  ? 

(KATE  and  MRS.  VERNON  come  on.) 

KATE.  (Anxiously.  To  JIM)  What  do  these 
men  want?  (To  BOLLINGER)  What  is  the  trouble 
here? 

BOLLINGER.     (Pointing  at  JIM)     Malfeasance. 

KATE.    What? 

BOLLINGER.  Why,  Miss  Kate,  he  gave  his  horse 
'to  a  man  he  ought  to  have  arrested — a  train  robber 
murderer — and 


JIM.  Hold  on,  Bollinger — man's  dead,  and  he 
used  to  be  a  friend  to  these  ladies. 

KATE.  (Crosses  to  the  men)  No — do  not 
speak  of  him— we  thought  he  was  a  friend — but 
why  do  you  accuse  Mr.  Radburn? 

JIM.     No  use  talkin',  Kate,  they  know. 

BOLLINGER     You  bet. 

JIM.  Lizbeth's  inside— you  an'  Kate  better  go  in, 
Mrs.  Vernon. 


78  IN  MIZZOURA. 

KATE.    No.    Do  you  blame  this  man? 

BOLLINGER.  Blame  him !  Why  he's  an  accessory 
after  the  fact  and  maybe  before — I  don't  see  how 
he  can  git  out  of  it !  Here's  his  telegram,  really 
better  than  a  plea  of  guilty — we  ought  to  arrest  him ! 

KATE.  (To  BOLLINGER)  He  is  not  guilty.  (To 
JIM)  Oh,  Jim,  Jim!  Can  you  forgive  me?  (She 
extends  her  hand) 

JIM.  ( Taking  her  hand)  Why,  Kate,  'tain't  none 
o'  their  business. 

KATE.  No,  it  is  all  mine.  (Murmur  from 
crowd — to  the  men)  Listen;  all  of  you  mt»t 
know  that  Mr.  Travers  was  attentive  to  me — I  be 
lieved  he  was  a  gentleman, — we  thought  he  was  a 
friend — (Half  crying)  but  he  never  was  half  the 
friend — never  could  be  half  the  friend  that  Jim  Rad- 
burn's  been 

JIM.    (Expostulating)    Kate ! 

KATE.  (To  JIM.)  Yes,  I  know  all  about  it  now 
— my  father  has  told  me  all — everything  about  my 
college  days — I  am  humiliated  to  the  dust. 

JIM.    Now,  Kate 

KATE.  You  should  have  told  me  in  the  shop,  when 
I  presumed  to  speak  of  your  disadvantages. 

JIM.  (To  men)  See  here — this  is  a  little  matter 
between  me  and  Kate  Vernon — none  of  your  busi 
ness — so  why  don't  you  saunter  off?  (Men  start  to 
go  R.) 

KATE.  (To  the  men)  No,  I  want  them  to  stay. 
I  have  nothing  to  say  of  Mr.  Travers'  doings — we 
were  mistaken — but  Jim  Radburn  thought  I  cared 
for  the  man  and  he  was  big  enough  to  let  him  escape 
for  me — I  am  the  one  at  fault — he  has  almost  given 
up  his  life  to  me.  You,  Col.  Bollinger,  and  every 
one  knows  that  he  could  win  his  nomination  if  he 
wanted  to — (Turning  to  JIM) — But  he  gave  that  up 
too,  because  Joe  Vernon,  my  father,  wants  it.  Oh, 
Jim!  Jim!  (Sinks  on  steps,  sobbing) 

MRS.  VERNON.    (Cosses  L.  to  her)    There,  Kate, 


IN  MIZZOURA.  79 

I  knowed  it  would  be  too  much  fur  you.  (To  JIM) 
She's  took  on  this  way  since  daylight. 

JIM.  Say,  you  fellers  ain't  got  spunk  enough 
to  keep  hoss  flies  off  a  you.  What  do  you  want? 
Cold  victuals  ? 

BOLLINGER.  Come  on,  fellers — (The  men  start 
off)  hold  on,  here's  Joe.  (Men  return) 

MRS.  VERNON.    Joe  Vernon ! 

(Enter  JOE  and  DAVE) 

JOE.  What's  the  matter,  Jim  ?  ain't  nobody  hurt  ? 
Why,  Kate 

JIM.    You  made  a  pretty  mess  of  it,  aint'  you? 

JOE.    What? 

JIM.     (Pointing  to  KATE)     Tellin'  everything. 

JOE.    Well,  that  ain't  all  of  it. 

JIM.    What  ain't? 

JOE.  Why,  they  put  them  blamed  telegrams  up 
at  the  convention — I  didn't  see  them  till  the  fust 
ballot  was  over  and  they'd  nominated  me 

MRS.  VERNON.     For  Jefferson,  Joe? 

JOE.  (In  great  excitement)  Yes,  for  the  Legis 
lature. 

(Cheers  from  crowd.) 

JIM.  There,  Kate,  do  you  hear  that  ?  Now  wha£'3 
the  use  cryin'  ? 

JOE.    And  I  made  a  speech 

MRS.  VERNON.    Git  out. 

JOE.    Git  out  yourself 

MRS.  VERNON.  Say,  your  pa's  been  nominated 
and  made  a  speech ! 

JOE.    Well,  lemme  tell  you 

JIM.  Well,  never  mind  the  speech,  Joe — you're 
as  good  as  elected  anyhow. 

JOE.  And  you  done  every  bit  of  it — why  I  took 
them  blamed  telegrams  and  I  told  that  convention 


80  IN  MIZZOURA. 

every  thing  I  knew.  Everything  Kate  told  me — 
about  your  getting  off  the  track  'cause  you  liked 
her.  Tom,  you  told  me  yourself  that  Jim  wasn't 
makin'  no  canvass  fur  the  nomination.  Do  you  know 
why?  Cause  he  liked  my  Kate — Last  night  he 
gimme  his  resignation  as  sheriff — Do  you  know 
why? 

BOLLINGER.    Afore  he  give  him  the  hoss  ? 

JOE.  Long  before — and  Jim  Radburn,  I  believe 
you  knowed  then  who  that  feller  was  and  I  told 
the  convention  so.  He  did  give  Travers  the  hoss, 
and  then  I  said  "  he  give  up  his  pony  to  this  feller 
'cause  he  didn't  have  the  heart  to  make  Kate  feel 
-  bad  " — and  I  said — "  what's  Mizzoura — what's  Pike 
County  comin'  to  if  we  kin  persecute  a  man  like 
that,"  and  by  golly,  they  jus'  stood  on  their  hind  legs 
and  hollered  fur  you ! 

BOLLINGER.  I'm  a  comin'  inside  myself  if  he  pulls 
both  guns.  (Comes  over  the  stile) 

JIM.    Why,  Tom. 

(They  shake  hands.) 

JOE.  An'  they're  up  there  now  like  a  pack  of 
howlin*  idiots  unanimously  re-electing  you  sheriff 
by  acclamation,  and  "  Vivy  Vochy  ",  over  and  over 
agin. 

JIM.    There,  there,  Kate — you're  goin'  to  JefiV 
son  soon — an'  you  kin  forgit  all  about  it. 

KATE.  I  don't  want  to  go  to  Jefferson,  Jim — I 
don't  want  to — forget  it.  (Turns,  weeps  fcn  JOE'S 
breast) 

MRS.  VERNON.    Now,  talk  to  her,  Jim! 

JVM.    Not  now — she  feels  too  bad. 

MRS.  VERNON.  But  she'll  get  over  that — she's 
comin'  to  her  senses,  an'  she  knows  she  likes  you — 
Talk  to  her. 

JIM.     Some  other  time. 

CURTAIN. 


ima  BUUK.  la  uut  UN    im   LA»I    UAIC 
STAMPED  BELOW 


RENEWED  BOOKS  ARE  SUBJECT  TO  IMMEDIATE 
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LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-25m-6,'66(G3853s4)45S 


N9  555156 


Thomas,  A. 
In  Mizzoura. 


PS3022 

15 

1916 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


